


Echoes

by rearranged (her_ghost)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/her_ghost/pseuds/rearranged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an old friend shows up, Dean goes on an impulsive bear hunt, only to find he's hunting something else entirely. He shoots an angel that is protecting the last remaining griffin clutch from a reality-travelling demon that would use them to destroy Heaven. Neither he nor the angel are prepared for the effect of the bond that exists between them in the alternate reality as they try to protect the griffin and her clutch from the demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2013 SPN/J2 Big Bang challenge on LiveJournal. [Go see the AMAZING art that my artist, Seleneheart, created for the story!!!](http://acme-graphics.livejournal.com/41652.html)
> 
> You can find my notes and acknowledgements on the [Echoes Masterpost](http://rearranged.livejournal.com/838442.html).
> 
> **UPDATE:** I realized that the image section breaks didn't show up on the .mobi version, so I added section breaks that would show up on downloads, too. Sorry if you downloaded a copy without them!

### 

_Fishing pole in hand, Dean rested comfortably in his camp chair as he sat at the end of a dock, overlooking a large lake that stretched out nearly as far as the eye could see. Thickly forested shores curved around the horizon, containing the large body of water. No signs of civilization intruded upon the forest or lake, aside from his dock. It was just Dean, the water, the trees, and the sky._

_His grip on his fishing pole was loose, one hand wrapped around the rod and the other idly cranking the reel. Dean watched for the spinner, eyes trained on the place where his line met the water. Sunlight caught on metal wings as the lure surfaced and skipped across the lake, the line between it and Dean growing shorter and shorter. The spinner was a few feet out when he jerked the pole up, one sharp movement that yanked his bait up and out of the water. Several quick turns of the reel later, the lure smacked the end of his pole. He dropped the pole beside him with a clatter._

_The fish weren’t biting, but he didn’t mind. He crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the clouds. A breeze rustled the tree leaves, rippled the surface of the lake, and moved the clouds in the sky. Water lapped quietly against the dock and birds chattered in the distance. The lake was peaceful, a place where he could take a few deep breaths, relax, and enjoy_ being _. It was_ his _place._

_Seconds before it happened, Dean knew something was off. In the space of an indrawn breath, the sky darkened, and lightning flashed in the distance. The air beside him shifted and the sound of beating wings filled the air. Dean turned toward the noise._

_He looked up and a trench coat-clad man stood way too damn close him, staring at him with an intent blue gaze. The chair fell, upended, to the dock behind Dean. He was standing with his fists up before he’d thought about it, having been in enough bar fights to throw a defensive punch if it came down to it._

_“Hello, Dean,” the stranger spoke, voice gravelly and deep, like stones shifting against each other. His eyes held Dean’s with a steady, confident expression, and he made no attempt to move closer. Lowering his fists, Dean looked the stranger over, from the dark, mussed hair that framed his face, to the two-day stubble that he bore. His trench coat gaped open, framing a cheap suit and a loosened navy tie._

_The initial shock wore off, but Dean couldn’t look away, even as he started to feel annoyed by the intrusion. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, as if agreeing with him._

_Someone was in_ his _place, someone that knew him. His comfortable, easy contentment gone with his solitude and anonymity, Dean scowled. “Who are you?”_

_The stranger quirked an eyebrow in response, deftly reaching out and pressing two dry fingertips against Dean’s forehead before Dean could move away._

_His protest died behind his lips and he made a choked noise between gritted teeth as he felt the pressure of that brief touch shove something into his mind, something foreign and awkward. His ribs ached with sudden pressure. The man began to pull back (_ Castiel _, the name rose unbidden in Dean’s mind), and his fingers ghosted over Dean’s forehead. Dean couldn’t look away as dozens of memories surfaced of the man (no,_ angel _), who stood next to him just as he had many times before, riding shotgun as Dean drove down different stretches of highway, sitting next to or across from Dean in any number of different diners and motels. Talking, laughing, glowering, shouting, throwing a punch in a dark alley... it was like watching a movie from a stranger’s point of view, one tiny drop in the span of an infinite existence. It was over in seconds, and Dean could only stare._

_The angel was no stranger. He was a friend, family; this was_ Cas _. Something inside Dean’s chest stirred at the thought of the nickname, even as the memories settled in his mind. It was a spot of warmth that spread between his hurt ribs, soothing him as it settled between his bones._

_“There’s something you have to do,” Castiel said, his words laced with urgency. Dean’s glazed stare sharpened. He focused on Cas’ mouth, reading the words as they were spoken. “Only you can do this. This task is very important, Dean. I want you to recognize me when you see me again. I’ve shielded you against angels and demonic possession. I also shared something that should help.” Cas hesitated, a flicker of conflicted emotion crossing his face too quickly for Dean to catch. “I apologize in advance for any undue harm this may cause,” he murmured, eyes shifting away from Dean’s face. He looked back at Dean with determination. “But this is important.”_

_Dean wanted to speak, to ask any of the dozens of questions that were multiplying in his head, but he couldn’t figure out what to say first and Castiel spoke before he could._

_“We’ll see each other again. Soon.” Castiel said._

_“Wait,” Dean blurted, reaching out in protest, but in the space of a heartbeat Cas was gone and the dream began to fade._

....

Dean was sitting up in his bed when he woke, wincing at the bright sunlight that poured in through his window. He kicked at the tangled mess of blankets twisted around his legs as his mind shook off the last vestiges of an odd dream. He remembered a cool breeze against his skin, a wide expanse of water, and one outstretched arm covered by a long, tan trench coat sleeve...

The dream slipped away gently and Dean didn’t bother chasing the fading memories, instead shifting his focus to the day ahead as his legs slid over the edge of the bed, thinking of Sam’s big test, eggs for breakfast, the Impala’s carburetor installation... The hardwood floor was cold beneath his bare feet as he stood up.

He started to step forward when fiery pain blazed across his chest, the intensity crippling him, stealing his breath. Dean sat, barely catching the edge of his bed as he doubled over, hands pressed against his chest. When he swallowed, he could feel an uncomfortable, out-of-place weight at the base of his throat, like the swell of nausea just before puking.

“What the hell happened last night?” He grimaced and pushed against his chest. It felt like the _bones_ hurt. “Damn,” he said, fumbling open his nightstand drawer to dig through the mess of crap that accumulated there. He pilfered through scrap paper, loose change and screws, a couple condom packets, and various corroded batteries until he found a bottle of aspirin that rattled when he picked it up. He swallowed the last five pills dry and dropped the empty bottle back into the drawer.

This time when he stood, he stretched carefully, frowning as the pain flared with each movement. He could feel the rise and fall of his t-shirt against sensitive skin as he slowly twisted from side-to-side, listening to his vertebrae pop. Blowing out a breath, Dean finished his warm up, decided to skip the rest of his morning routine, and walked stiffly to his bathroom. One hand scratched idly at his belly before moving up to rub his chest, pain flaring briefly as he yawned.

Dean stared at his reflection in the dingy, toothpaste-speckled mirror that hung above his tiny sink. He rubbed harder against his chest, near his heart and what felt like an odd bulk stashed beneath his uppermost ribs.

“Too much to drink, maybe,” he muttered, noting the dark bags that framed his bloodshot eyes, tasting the previous night’s funk that coated his teeth. The night’s end was a blur, as most were, and the last thing he remembered clearly was playing pool with Ash and Garth at the Roadhouse. Maybe he stayed out too late, or maybe it was the hot dogs from Biggerson's he’d had for lunch. His lips turned down even more, exaggerating his look of discomfort. 

“Do not want full-out food poisoning,” he said to himself, as he followed the lines of exhaustion that were etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth. Pointedly, he looked down and stared at the sink as he scrubbed the taste away, leaving the previous night’s mysteries behind in the drain before he attempted to face the day ahead.

Dean lived with his little brother, Sam, a mile or so off of a dirt road outside Andrews, North Carolina. Tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains, the rundown house was small, with a couple tiny rooms, two baths, and a kitchen. It was a fixer-upper that had seen better days, but it kept them dry and warm.

Dean was moving in the kitchen, sliding sunny side up eggs onto plates that already held buttered toast and crunchy bacon, when Sam stumbled through the doorway. It was Sam's favorite breakfast, something Dean had been cooking for so long that he’d mastered the technique.

Sam ran one hand through his tousled hair, the other clutching a thick book to his chest, and the face of exhaustion behind his fringe mirrored Dean's. He dropped down into a chair and slapped his book against the tabletop.

“Going for the shaggy, no-sleep look, huh? How’s that working out for you?” Dean remarked and raised his eyebrows at his brother. Sam glared at him from beneath his long bangs.

“Sarah doesn’t have any complaints,” Sam muttered, scooting down a few inches to slouch in his chair as he nibbled the crust of his toast. The large book, the same SAT study course he’d been carrying for a few weeks, the once-pristine white pages now coffee stained and dog-earned, lay next to his plate. Sam’s expression was distant as he chewed slowly.

Dean poured himself a glass of orange juice, and then poured Sam’s, whose eyes didn’t blink. There was no heat in Sam’s words and Dean could read the stress in his expression, in the lack of sleep and inability to go anywhere without the giant study guide. College symbolized Sam’s ticket out of North Carolina, complete with endless college applications, the scholarship deadlines crowding their calendar, and so many different catalogs in the mail that Dean didn’t search the schools online unless he saw Sam thumbing through the catalog.

“What time do you have to be at the school?” Dean asked before he chomped down on a bite of toast, forkful of soft egg whites dripping with gooey yellow shoved in right after. 

Sam picked at his breakfast before he responded. Dean watched as Sam poked the yolk and the yellow ran down the egg, pooled in the middle of his plate, and one of the edges of Sam’s toast soaked it up. Sam ran a finger up the side of his orange juice glass and they both watched the condensation pool into fat drops and slide down. Eventually he looked up at Dean, who had stopped eating to watch Sam while he waited. “A couple of us are going to meet up at 9 for a last minute study session at the library. Mr. Tran told us he’d be there to open it up and supervise. From there we’ll walk to the school. Everyone signs in for the test at 11, and the test starts at 12.”

“I’ll drop you off on my way to the shop,” Dean offered, as if that wasn’t already worked out between them. Sam flashed a brief, tight smile at the attempted distraction. “We can always head out to the range later and blow off steam. I have a brand new pack of shells for the 12 gauge.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed and finally took a bite of his eggs. “That’d be alright.” He was staring at his plate as he chewed but he didn’t appear as tense, and the lines in his face softened somewhat. “Thanks.”

....

Dean waved Sam off and eyed the half-circle of kids standing by the flagpole. Nerds and geeks, all of them, and the knowledge satisfied Dean. He drove away, watching in the rearview as Sam approached his friends. He turned out of the school’s lot and reached for the old busted radio’s volume knob, blaring Led Zeppelin through tinny-sounding dashboard speakers. The engine in his old, battered GMC Sierra pickup roared as he pushed the accelerator to the floor, tires squealing in place. The bed fishtailed before the hot rubber gripped the pavement. Straightening out, he sped down the road, grinning as he imagined Sam listening and rolling his eyes.

Two left turns later, he was deftly maneuvering the curves and turns that comprised County Road 15, a tiny road that meandered through the mountains for miles with forest pressing in on either side. Occasionally, the trees would clear to expose a creek that ran down the sloping mountainside to the right, which would then drop under the road and continue down the mountain on the other side.

Singer’s Salvage and Repair resided eight miles down County Road 15. The tiny dirt road’s entrance was nearly impossible to spot before passing it, and a wild vine had grown over the hand-painted white sign with black letters that read ‘Bobby’s.’ The store was Bobby Singer’s house, the salvage and repair business located in his weed-ridden overgrown yard, full of junked cars, parts, and rusted scrap metal. Bobby, to those who knew him well enough, was a crotchety bastard with a stubborn streak miles wide.

Dean worked on the cars in the yard, which were either up on blocks or using the hydraulic jack Bobby had scavenged from an abandoned property a few counties over. They stashed it beneath a tin shed frame that had makeshift walls of plywood screwed to it for protection from the rain. A thick, waterproof extension cord snaked through the mud between the house and the shed, providing the necessary power. Parts were mostly harvested from the junkers scattered around the yard, or occasionally purchased from the auto parts store in town. Dean could do just about anything to an older vehicle except rebuild motors, and both he and Bobby were learning about the computerized mechanics of modern cars as they worked on them.

Singer owned a hefty plot of land, easily fifty or sixty thousand acres that stretched up and over the entire mountain behind the house. Mostly used for hunting, the land was a family plot that bordered the Great Smoky Mountains National Forest. He’d been approached numerous times (Dean knew of attempts by the National Park Service and two separate mining operations), but Bobby wouldn’t budge for any amount of pleading or money.

“I was born here, like my daddy and granddaddy, like their daddy’s and granddaddy’s” he claimed, “and I’m gonna die here, just like they did. My next of kin is gonna pick up where I leave off.” As far as anybody knew Bobby didn’t have any next of kin, but Dean felt like a close second if Bobby’s family didn’t exist somewhere. 

He’d been 16 and angry, stuck in one place for the longest stretch of time that Dean could remember. His dad kept it together enough to maintain a job, though his evenings were spent in as many bottles as he could afford. Dean didn’t dare make friends. Experience told him that the moment he did was when his dad would crash, have a scuffle with their neighbors or the law, and they’d be rolling down the highway again with all of their belongings in the back of his dad’s Impala before any serious repercussions occurred. He went to school, went through the motions, and then he went home to take care of Sam.

Dean could clearly remember his puzzlement when, instead of his dad's keys scratching the door as he fumbled with them, he had heard someone’s loud, distinct knock on the door. He had expected to see someone dressed in a uniform with a shiny badge pinned to their chest, but instead he had found a burly man with a tractor ball cap propped on his head. The man had introduced himself as Bobby, and had said he needed to talk to Dean about something real important. The rest was mostly a blur, but Dean remembered his eyes, how heavy they looked, and how his shoulders had been slumped with the weight of his news.

Bobby told Dean he had been driving his battered, faded blue Peterbilt that had seen better days, and had headed home to take care of sticky gears after a cross-country load. He told Dean he'd recognized the shiny black Impala when his headlights had washed over the car, that he'd seen John driving the car around town with two wide-eyed boys staring out the rear window. That particular evening John had crashed into a tree when he couldn't follow the tight curve around the mountain. He hadn't been wearing a seatbelt. CPR did nothing and when the EMT arrived he was pronounced dead on the scene. Dean had never asked, but he thought Bobby must have misled the police about them, had already decided to do what he could instead of watching the boys fade into the state’s broken foster system.

Dean had listened to him numbly. At the time he hadn’t felt anything. No sadness, anger, relief, regret. Nothing except his concern for Sam, and what would happen to them next. He’d stared at his scuffed, barely-too-small boots until Bobby’s words broke through his stupor.

“The way I see it, you’re the man of the house now, son. It’s your job to get things in order and build a future for yourself and your little brother in there.”

_You’re in charge._ Dean had set his shoulders, looked up at Bobby, and asked him how. The next day after school, Dean had started working at Bobby’s. He had already known the basics, like checking oil and tire pressure, but the rest he had learned over time with Bobby’s gruff guidance and his own trial and error. The rest was history.

Dean had a few projects lined up for the day, including installation of the carburetor in the Impala he’d been restoring bit by bit, but when the trees opened up to reveal Bobby’s yard, he was immediately distracted.

Bobby stood just off his front porch, holding himself stiffly as he talked to someone. Dean’s eyes narrowed. The slightly stooped posture and navy blue trucker hat gave away Rufus, the other crotchety old man in the county, the one who lived a couple more miles down the road and owned the next biggest plot of land, which bordered Bobby’s property to the north. From the look of Bobby’s flushed face, thinned lips, and the way he snapped as he bit off his words, they were having it out over something. Dean couldn’t see Rufus’ face, but he could imagine the old man was spitting colorful words back at Bobby. 

He was almost surprised he hadn’t witnessed the two coming to blows yet, Dean thought as he twisted the key in the ignition to shut off the motor. The sudden silence was filled by the muffled exchange that was steadily growing louder and more heated. Bobby gestured angrily and Dean could see Rufus pointing a finger at Bobby. Dean left his windows up and debated staying in the vehicle until the two were through, but he knew it was best to break them up and diffuse what he could. The last time Rufus had come around, Bobby had sported red eyes and sour whiskey breath for a week.

He opened his door just as Rufus threw his hands up, spun around on his heel, and stalked toward Dean. Dean stared at Rufus he stormed past, face dark and furious. Rufus caught his eye and shot Dean a dirty look. Rolling his eyes in response, Dean ignored the old coot. Whatever was between him and Bobby, that was their business and Bobby had made that clear. Dean didn't ask about feuds between drunken old men, not when he wasn’t involved.

“Worse than teenage girls, I swear,” he muttered as he walked toward Bobby, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Bobby was standing in the same spot, glaring after Rufus, fists propped on his hips. “That old _asshole_ ,” he spat when Dean was within earshot.

“Anything you want to talk about, old man?” Dean strolled up to Bobby and jabbed at him with his elbow before turning and coming to stand next to him. He followed Bobby’s gaze across the scrapyard and they watched Rufus slam the door of his rusty Cadillac. The motor whined before it turned, engine finally roaring to life. Rufus stomped on the gas and his tires sprayed gravel across the heaps of cars closest to him. “Looked dramatic from where I was sitting.” 

The look Bobby sent Dean was possibly worse than the one Rufus had shot at him. Dean felt his eyebrows lift in surprise as he held his palms up in forfeit. 

“That bad, huh? Okay, off limits. Whatever.” Dean shrugged. “What’s on the list today?”

A long moment passed while Bobby looked back toward the road. His eyes followed Rufus’ path and the cloud of dust that billowed up behind him. “Not bad, just some property rights crap,” Bobby growled. He finally looked away from the road and gave Dean a sharp look of assessment. Gruffly, he said, “Come on, I’ve got the list inside.” He jerked his chin toward the house as he started walking, then paused and turned back to Dean. “Sheriff Mills has a tune up scheduled for her pick-up. That’ll be first thing.”

Dean smirked, unable to resist the jibe; “That her request or yours on her behalf?”

Bobby raised a select finger in Dean’s direction, pulled the dusty, battered screen door open to his house-slash-office, and stepped inside, letting the screen slam against the metal frame behind him. Dean chortled, shaking his head as he reached for the handle.

....

Four or five hours into his shift, Dean was elbows-deep in an F150 engine, its metal hood jimmied open above him, only supported by an old wooden broomstick, when his phone rang.

“Fuck,” he muttered, listening to Pink Floyd’s _Money_ play for a beat or two before he let go of the bolt he was loosening and extracted himself from the motor, dropping his wrench on the flat top of the radiator.

Greasy fingers be damned, Dean hit ‘answer’ as fast as he could and said, “Hey, Sam,” as he shoved the phone against his ear.

“I did it, my first SAT is over,” Sam said proudly. “There were a few guesses, some stuff I didn’t remember.” Dean could practically hear Sam shrug through the phone, his little brother’s wide smile bleeding into his words as Sam chose to let it go. “I feel good,” he said.

Dean felt his throat tighten as he smiled in return. "You did good, Sammy," he said. The line fell quiet between them.

"Some of us are going back to Luis’ house to hang out and play Xbox, celebrate." Sam hesitated. "I don’t know what time we’ll finish up, but I might need a ride home.”

"Go for it," Dean told him, proud that he didn’t have to force the words out. It’d been just the two of them for most of their childhood, and now Sam was coming into his own. Few teenagers wanted to spend their afternoon watching their big brothers work, especially when friends were available. "But keep your cell on. I have a few more hours here, I'll call when I'm finishing up."

Bobby stood on the other side of the truck and wiped his hands with a rag, watching Dean shove his phone back in his pocket. "How goes the pursuit of academic excellence?"

"Sam's doing good. He's gonna get a one way ticket out of here next year," Dean said boastfully, his grin wide and honest as he reached for his wrench. He believed in his brother.

"And what are you going to do when he's away?" Bobby's gruff voice had softened, just enough that Dean noticed.

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t see it coming. He’d been taking care of his brother for so long that he didn’t know what he was going to do when Sam was gone, but his future wasn’t up for discussion. He shrugged and made a point to ignored Bobby's searching look. "I’ve got some ideas," he said, a bit more defensively than necessary.

"Other than drinking?" Bobby drawled, but that didn’t stop him from carrying over two cold beers he’d procured from the mini fridge on the porch. Dean nodded at him in thanks and popped the top. The can was ice cold and soothing against his lips as he took a drink.

When he brought the can down, he stared at Bobby. "Not trying to follow my old man's footsteps." He wasn’t going to beat around the bush, not with Bobby. Bobby looked away with a scowl. 

"Yeah, well," Bobby said, then took a pull from his own can. After a moment he continued, quietly, “All I'm saying is that you shouldn't squander the chance you get to live your life for yourself."

Dean rolled his eyes in an exaggerated gesture and he waved the heavy wrench clenched in his other fist. "Yeah, that's the idea," he sniped, but there was no real heat in his voice. It wasn’t something he was ready to discuss, that was all. "Mind if I get back to it?" He indicated the truck whose alternator he was trying to remove. "Trying to finish up here."

Bobby's eyes were a little too knowing for Dean’s comfort, but he didn’t say anything else. Dean turned away, not caring if Bobby could see through to the worry that he kept buried away; the worry that he wasn’t sure what he could do when Sam was gone, when he lost his purpose. Taking care of Sammy had been Dean's mission as long as he could remember, from the moment the other car had slammed into theirs, leaving infant Sam and four-year-old Dean motherless. When John defaulted to alcoholism to cope with reality, someone had to step up for Sammy.

Dean wasn’t in denial about his lack of direction, but it was easier not to think about it or to get excited, just in case things didn’t work out for Sam. He told himself that he would cross that bridge when he got to it. Hell, maybe he could even stay in town for a while, save up some money (that he’d likely send to Sam, if he examined that idea closely). Staying was a cop out, he knew; he would be doing the same things, waiting on Sam to visit, drinking too much at the Roadhouse, and maybe even taking Jo up on the fling she kept throwing in his face, even though he knew it won't work out. They were too much alike, too stubborn, too abrasive.

Bobby coughed across the yard and Dean’s lips twisted as he finally turned the bolt. The old man would kick him in his ass if he could hear Dean's thoughts, with good reason. Truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. Dean hadn’t afforded himself the luxury of daydreams.

He straightened up, rolling the greasy, warped bolt between his fingers. Maybe... But that was a thought for another day. He turned back to the motor.

....

The house was empty when Dean came in from work. He washed up, ate a quick sandwich for dinner, and headed down to the Roadhouse. The Roadhouse was the bar he and a bunch of other locals frequented to drink beer, shoot pool, and trade hunting stories. PBR was on tap, happy hour drafts were fifty cents a pop, and it was rare for the gravel parking lot to be less than half-full. Dean spotted a couple cars he recognized when he pulled in.

Just inside the door he caught sight of his friends, Garth and Ash, shooting darts, their table littered with empty dart cases and red plastic cups. Ash's cups would contain cheap beer, accompanying his mullet and Lynyrd Skynyrd tee, faded and frayed with the sleeves cut off. Despite the look, he was a resident genius with computers and networking.

Garth's cups would be ice water or Coke. Scrawny and long-limbed, Garth had a sharp eye that could throw a straight dart or catch a rare kill shot in the woods, but he couldn't drink worth a damn. One beer and he'd be over the limit, stumbling and slurring. Besides, someone had to drive. He was throwing when Dean passed, twisting and pulling one leg back as he followed through like he'd just rolled a strike down the bowling lane. The dart landed dead center in the bullseye and Garth pumped his fist as he cheered.

Ash threw one hand up in greeting when he saw Dean in passing. Dean nodded and headed straight to the bar. When he had a beer in hand, he walked back toward his friends, foam sloshing over the rim and leaving his fingers beer-sticky and tacky. His cut-off was after two beers, just enough to feel warm but not exceed the legal driving limit.

Dean startled when he heard his name yelled from across the bar, the movement splashing beer across his boot and the floor. Holding his now half-full, dripping cup, Dean glanced up to see several people looking at him curiously as someone strolled across the room toward him.

Too late to slink off in the other direction, Dean conceded to himself and plastered on a grin. The shiny silk suit clued him in immediately, and Dean’s forced smile was met with a familiar sly smirk. Fucking Richie, of all people. Dean shook his head; he knew he should have caught the Jersey accent. Richie was a few steps away when he spread his arms, and that was all the warning Dean got before he was pulled into a strong half-hug that sent more beer sloshing down the sides of his cup. 

Richie stepped back and slapped him on the shoulder. “Long time no see, Winchester!”

“Yeah, what’s it been, like three years now?” Dean held his beer up in salutation. Richie was a high school friend, someone who’d passed through for a couple years with his father while his parents were divorcing. “How’ve you been?”

“Let me tell ya!” Richie’s expression was smug and as overconfident as it had been when they were younger. “I’ve been taming the raging rivers in West by-god Virginia, as a whitewater rafting guide. Can you believe that?” Richie cocked his chin up, leaning forward to murmur, “They got some wild ladies in those mountains, if you don’t mind ‘em a little _natural_ , know what I mean?”

Dean rolled his eyes and tried to match his idea of rafting with what he remembered about Richie’s northern manner. “Rafting, like, floating down the river in tubes, drinking beer? Sounds like a college kid’s summer job, man. Something to pass the time and look at mostly naked girls.”

Richie raised one eyebrow as he lifted his drink to his mouth. “And you see something wrong with that, Winchester? You got issues,” he said, and took a sip from whatever fruity concoction was floating in his cup, complete with a paper umbrella. “What’s up with you?”

Dean shrugged, taking a drink of his own beer instead of answering immediately. “Been working, trying to get my Impala running. After that, I don’t know. No real plans, I guess, just been hanging out.”

Richie expression was aghast. “What, no luck with the ladies? Or is it men now, huh, Winchester?” He waggled his eyebrows and smirked. “You remember checking out that dude in the uniform? What was that, a field trip to the army base?”

“I was looking at his uniform,” Dean said, the defense automatic. He remembered the day clearly, the first time a man had caught his eye, and he’d been so transparent that his classmates surrounding him had noticed, too. Trust Richie to remember it. That incident, thanks to the rumor mill at their small-town high school, had led to an awkward conversation with Sam about being comfortable with one's own sexuality, a conversation that he’d never wanted to repeat. Dean shook his head at the memories and slugged Richie lightly on the shoulder. “That was a long time ago. Lately there are too many ladies for me to focus on one.”

A smirk curved Richie’s mouth and he nodded as he spoke. “Atta boy, Winchester. Now I just gotta get you on the river, it’s a friggin’ trip. Class five rapids, serious maneuvers. Roller coasters got _nothin’_ on these waves.” Richie mimed the roll of the river with his wrist as he spoke. Dean shook his head, laughing when Richie looked up. “What? What, you doubt me?”

“Nah, Richie, but you’re right. I might just have to come up and see it for myself.” And maybe he would. The road trip would be a few hours, maybe half a day. Someday. “Come on, Ash and Garth are playing darts up front. I’ve got some change, let’s get in on a game. If you can still throw,” Dean challenged.

“Ten bucks says we smoke ‘em,” Richie said, taking off after him. “Lemme tell ya, they’re gonna forget about it.” Dean ducked his head and grinned, but threw his bill down on the table when they walked up.

“I don’t forget nothin’,” Ash drawled, shutting one eye as he pretended to aim a dart at Richie. “Been a long time, Richie. I think you still owe me fifty bucks from losing this very game, if my memory serves.”

“Nah, man, we settled that. Nothing to it, it’s done.” Richie waved him off, and Ash rolled his eyes, turning to launch his dart at the board. It hit just left of the bullseye. “I see you’re still playin’ a mean game.”

“Just call me Master of the Board,” Ash said, turning and swinging his hair behind him. The front was cut short and neat, while the rest trailed halfway down his back. He shook Richie’s hand. “Good to see you, man.”

“And Garth, how you doin’?” Richie reached past Ash to clap Garth on the shoulder. “Tell me the ladies are treating you well.”

“Got a special one waiting at home,” Garth boasted as he took a drink of beer. “She’s something else.”

Richie shook his head. “Out of all of us, Garth’s got the ball and chain.”

Dean grabbed a dart that was lying on the table. “Garth’s got it better than most of us,” he said, holding the dart up and aiming as Garth took his turn. “Let’s start a fresh game, see if Richie’s able to back up that bragging.”

“Oooh,” Ash nudged Richie, who mock glowered at Dean in response.

“You doubt me, Winchester? That hurts, man, right here,” Richie patted his chest over his heart and stepped back dramatically, bumping into the guy walking behind him. Ash shook his head, but Dean and Garth laughed as Richie tossed an apology over his shoulder. Richie shrugged and smirked at his friends. “What can you do about it, huh? Well. I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you.”

A couple games of darts and a few more beers later found Richie talking them into camping out, for old time’s sake. “I chatted up that fogey, Turner, got a site set out on the back of his property. We’ll drink some beers, start a campfire, you sleep in your truck, and I sleep in my tent...” Richie trailed off suggestively, raising his eyebrows. “Hell, maybe shoot some guns, you know, old time’s sake and all.”

“I am in, my man,” Ash said as he pegged his darts in the blank, outer edge of the board. He nodded appreciatively at Richie. “No better way to end the weekend than a bonfire, beer, and guns.”

Dean was surprised to hear Rufus was letting anyone stay on his property. He could see him from that morning in his mind’s eye, shouting at Bobby, who had shouted right back, then the dirty look he’d thrown Dean. It wasn’t like him, to let others on his land. Ever.

“Dean, come on,” Richie said when Dean didn’t respond immediately. He held out clasped hands in mock pleading. “It’s just one night. You know you wanna.”

“I’m out,” Garth said, hands held up and head shaking as Richie turned his pleading expression on him. “Tomorrow’s a big presentation day for her; Mr. Fizzles has to offer her some moral support tonight.” There were groans at the mention of his sock puppet. Garth shrugged sheepishly.

Ash pushed him away. “Go on, then, get. We’re making battle plans. Dean, call up your brother. He can take Garth’s spot.”

Dean nodded at Garth as he pulled out his phone, dialing by feel. He read ‘calling Sam’ scroll across the screen as he brought it up to his ear. 

“I’m in,” Dean said, focused on hanging out around a warm fire, cold beer in hand. Come morning it would be worth the painful crick in his neck and the heavy smell of smoke clinging to his clothes. “Just gotta sell Sam on it.”

He listened to his phone ring and thought about the night sky, flashlights, rifles... He’d pick up a couple six packs on the way out, and he had a sleeping bag behind his cab if necessary. Convincing Sam to come along to be his designated driver was a strong temptation, if Sam wasn’t interested. That luxury would be gone before he knew it.

Dean pushed the somber thoughts away as he watched his friends, Garth exchanging contact information with Richie, and Ash chatting with both of them. The last ring should have sent him to voicemail, but Sam picked up, sounding breathless.

“Hello?” Several voices were speaking in the background, someone cheered, and Dean thought he could hear music, too.

“Hey Sammy,” he said, turning away from his friends. “Want to do something later tonight?” He explained the situation and Sam hesitated briefly, just long enough that Dean debated telling him to forget it.

“Hanging out around a fire sounds okay,” Sam said finally, instead of his usual lecture about drunk driving and designated drivers. “Pick me up at Luis’.”

....


	2. Part 2

### 

It wasn’t quite dusk when Dean turned onto the one lane dirt road behind Richie’s car, but twilight was approaching rapidly. The sky between the trees was a pale blue with soft tones of peach, pink, and yellow beginning to spread out from the western tree line. Sam sat across the bench seat and Dean watched him stare out at the forest through the passenger’s side window as reaching vines and thorny brambles scraped down the side of the truck, thick overgrowth that trailed across the unused road.

While Bobby’s property had never been mined, both his and Rufus’ plots had been logged by their respective great-great-great grandfathers. Every tree in the forest was less than one hundred years old, as the first growth had been clear cut when the railroad and logging revolution ripped through the area. Bobby had shown Dean pictures of his land in grainy black and white, miles of bare mountains with stumps scattered as far as the eye could see, no trees, growth, or foliage in sight. The forest had been left alone to grow back wildly, reclaiming its own heritage, but the logging roads remained on both his and Rufus’ property. The old, single track dirt roads had been used for hunting access and were lined with ruts and potholes, some large enough to stall a car after a rainstorm, which necessitated slow navigation. The longer Dean followed Richie, the deeper the potholes became and the more the foliage pressed in on either side. Richie pulled off suddenly as the trees opened up into a small field full of tall, dry grass. Dean braked hard and jerked his wheel in order to pull in beside him.

“How the hell did you find this place?” Dean asked Richie incredulously, looking at the cleared acres neatly beside the road, surrounded by forest. Sam had already walked out toward the makeshift fire ring Richie had set up. Dean had dragged Sam all over Bobby’s and Rufus’ properties when they were younger, and he didn’t think he’d ever ended up at the clearing Richie had found.

“Everybody loves Richie, what can I say,” Richie shrugged as he stepped out of his car. “Rufus was feeling generous."

"Rufus once generously shot at me with buckshot," Dean muttered, grabbing the old, battered red cooler stashed behind his seat. He’d filled it with two six-packs on the way over.

Ash stood next to his open door and nodded in agreement. “Been there, except it was my dad’s vehicle. Didn’t think I’d survive that night between the two of them. Rufus is a mean shot for a crotchety old man.”

Everyone had Rufus stories in their backwood community. They had grown up with nothing better to do on the weekends than drive the back roads and shoot. Any road, gated or open, had been fair game; Dean still kept bolt cutters in the toolbox that stayed in his truck bed, just in case.

"Everyone grabs a handful of wood, we’ll have plenty," Richie said, bending to pick up a few sticks. The clearing was littered with branches and limbs from the surrounding forest.

It had been too long since he’d spent a Saturday night in the woods, Dean mused as he dumped his armful of tinder next to the fire ring. Ash began piling them very specifically, one piece at a time, carefully creating an outer husk of larger pieces and the inner full of tiny twigs and bits of dry grass. With the magnesium fire starter on his keychain and one of his keys, Ash sent tiny sparks into the middle of the pile. He shook his head and muttered something about the sanctity of nature when Dean offered his lighter, which meant he was taking advantage of the chance to use the fire starter. Soon tiny twigs snapped and popped as the licking flames consumed them. Bits of black soot and burning brush floated up toward the sky as the fire grew, heat creeping outward from the flames.

Just as the sun disappeared completely beyond the horizon, Dean kicked one boot over the other, both legs stretched out in front of him as he rested on the ground, back against a downed log and one arm up on the cooler. Richie tossed a couple dead lighters in the fire and Ash timed their tiny explosions, counting down until each one popped or hissed.

The sound of light footsteps and snapping twigs gave away Sam’s approach as he brought back more firewood. The fire was roaring and they had enough kindling lying in the clearing for a couple more hours of burn time. Dean fished a couple beers out of the cooler, fingers dipping into what was left of the ice. He offered one to Sam, but the firm, quick shake of Sam’s head was accompanied by a scowl which sent hair falling across his eyes.

Sam hadn’t yet acquired a real taste for beer or liquor, and maybe never would because of their dad. Sam had always been the more practical one who’d thought about emergencies and designated drivers, especially around Dean and his friends. Dean caught the grin that started to spread across his face. He was damn proud of his little brother, who could be a sulky, know-it-all, pain in the ass, but who maintained a 4.0 grade point average and had his eyes set mostly on out-of-state colleges, a few being ivy league. Sam was bright and Dean was smart enough to know that. Smart enough to know that Sam had his life wide open in front of him, with so many choices and options to choose from as graduation grew closer.

Dean himself had followed a little more closely in his dad’s footsteps, a path that had been laid out for him since early childhood. He caught himself peeling a slick label off the side of his beer, rolling bits of wet paper between his thumb and his finger, and tried to shake off his thoughts. When he glanced back up he saw his friends around the fire, the guys he’d grown up with. Good guys, the guys that, like Dean, would stick around the same podunk town, and live out their legacy of hunting and fishing and providing for their families.

“How long’s it been since we’ve all sat out like this?” Dean mused, using the corner of his shirt to twist the cap off of his beer. He was comfortably warm and beer buzzed. He could feel the warmth of the fire through the soles of his boots and a faint flush of heat spreading through his body.

Sam plopped down on the log next to him, holding his hands out to absorb some of the fire’s heat.

"Can't remember the last time we sat around a campfire in the woods," Sam said, snapping a long, thin stick into smaller pieces and throwing them into the blaze.

“It’s been a while. My fires are all in my backyard. Life gets in the way of company,” Ash said, sitting across from them. He held his bottle out and tipped it toward Dean. “Here’s to making time for fun.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Richie held his bottle up and Dean followed suit. The rims of their bottles met, glass clinking together before they tossed the bottles back and chugged. Ash whooped when he finished first and he chucked his empty bottle into the fire, flames licking up the sides to consume the label. Dean's own bottle followed suit, and he watched the brown glass land in the fire, reflecting the flickering flames as he caught his breath. He'd been here before, he thought, with the slow burn of alcohol in his veins. Tomorrow they'd wake up to find a dozen twisted, melted bottles strewn amongst the thick gray ash, lingering remnants of the evening.

Dean didn’t hang out like this enough. Just resting with friends, his brother, in the middle of the forest with a cool beer in hand, working on a heady beer buzz that would leave the edges of his vision blurred. It was enough to ease his daily stresses, at least for the night. _Free Bird_ blared across the field from his truck stereo, turned up all the way. Lost in the buzz and air drumming along with the solo, Dean didn’t notice the conversation shift until he caught Rufus’ name. Richie was holding his cell phone toward Ash, showing him something.

“If it keeps coming back, it has to be nearby,” Ash mused, eyes narrowed as he stared at Richie’s phone. “Likely going to target Rufus’ stock again. Why isn’t he trying to kill it?”

“Out of season. Unless he can prove self-defense, it’s a nasty fine. Sometimes they revoke your license for a couple years.” Richie hid his phone away again. “I told him I’d look around while I was out here, you know, maybe do him a favor.”

“Bear attacking his livestock?” Dean asked. Richie nodded at him. “That’s definitely why he’s showing you,” Dean said, shifting and scooting back from the fire as it warmed his skin. “He’s asking you to do his dirty work for him.”

Richie didn’t appear to care, his grin wide and steady despite Dean’s claim. “It’s been so long, you have no idea. I miss this place. I miss the hunt. My uncle’s a butcher, I can probably talk him into sliding it in for me, quiet-like. Our little secret, you know.”

There was nothing like a sob story to do Dean in. The twitch at the corner of Richie's lips told him that Richie knew it. And, damnit, Dean wanted to blame the cracks in his tough exterior on something, like raising and taking care of his little brother, but it was just who he was.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself up off the ground. He dusted his jeans off before he saw the others watching him. “What? Come on, let’s do this. We have a bear to hunt.”

“Illegally,” Sam clarified, the disapproval unmistakable in his voice. Their voice of reason was a seventeen year old.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, laughter on his breath. He smirked at his little brother. “That’s right. And you’re coming along.”

....

They all piled in Dean’s pick-up, Sam and Richie squeezed into the front seat with him, Ash whooping and hollering from the bed. The moon was rising in the sky, nearly above them, over half-full and bright as they bounced through the ruts and potholes Dean couldn’t see while Richie directed him deeper into Rufus’ property.

“Up here, take a left,” Richie said, and he leaned over Sam to point, his arm shoved in front of Dean’s face. Sam, stuck riding ‘bitch’ because he was the youngest, protested with a faint “hey!”

Even though Dean had Richie’s hand directly in his line of vision, he swung the truck sharply into the next left. Richie pulled back and Dean realized too late that the road ended abruptly, with just enough space carved between the trees to park or turn around. He slammed on his brakes and narrowly avoided hitting a large tree, though his head smacked against the back of his seat.

“Damn, Rich,” he swore and dropped it into park. Ash jeered and yelled from the bed.

“Yeah, I forgot about that.” Richie said, wincing as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

“I’m sure you did,” Dean muttered, opening his door and stepping out. Sam crawled out behind him and Richie ducked out the passenger side.

“That was one hell of a turn,” Ash ribbed instantly, tossing his hair over his shoulder. He pulled another beer from the cooler, the bottle hissing as he turned the cap.

“Might as well have another for the hike, huh?” Dean reached for his own, and pointedly ignored Sam’s dark look when he raised his own bottle to take a long pull.

With the dome light on and Ash’s lantern on the edge of the bed, Dean scrounged beneath his seat until he found his Colt handgun, the one his father had carried. Loaded with specially-made .36 caliber bullets, it was heavy and balanced in Dean’s hand. His own .308 Remington rifle was behind his seat, warm wooden stock waiting for him. If they ran into anything, he’d be a better shot from a distance, with the stock and green laser light he’d added to his rifle for night hunting coyote, occasionally wild hogs. Hunting was second nature to Dean; some of his earliest memories were of walking just behind his dad, Sam in tow, as they hunted their food. Guns were as comfortable in his hands as pencils or knives.

The moon was bright overhead and the few clouds that lingered in the sky were sparse and thin. If they made it close to Rufus’ farm, they would have the advantage of moonlight and open ground, but within the forest itself, the spots of light that filtered through the leaves were just as likely to give them away as show them their prey. Dean dropped a handful of extra rounds in one pocket and a thin flashlight in the other before he zipped his jacket up halfway. Feeling ready, he glanced around as the others finished checking their weapons.

“Split up into pairs once we’re in the woods?” Ash asked, leaning against the hood of Dean’s truck with his bolt action rifle cradled across his chest. Mounted on top was a night vision scope that he could see his prey through, with a laser light attached. His rifle was a fusion of parts from different guns, something Ash had put together as a school project. “If we spread out, we’ll cover more ground.”

“Only if we whistle or something, right? Give signals, stay out of each other’s line of sight, watch for the scope beams?” Richie said, cocking his snub-nosed 12-gauge shotgun, single barrel. His jacket pockets bulged with shells. “I miss hunting, but I'm not trying to shoot my friends, ya know?”

“Works for me,” Dean said, scanning the dark forest around them before he finished the last of his beer with one long drink. He tossed the bottle into the bed of his truck and it clanged off the side. “You think we’re anywhere close, Richie?”

Richie held up a handheld GPS, tapping the side of it as it tried to pick up a signal. “We're a mile or so north of his livestock, I think. Couldn't hurt to start here, deep in the forest. I was asking around at the bar, didn't hear of any other sightings. Rufus said there were a lot of access roads back in his property, just to head due north and pick wherever to camp. Figured the same goes for hunting.” 

“Follow the star,” Sam said dryly, stepping next to Dean, Colt stowed into his pants. “It’s not bear baiting if you don’t specify where you left the bait?”

“You’ve got it,” Ash gave Sam a thumb’s up. “We’ll do the dirty work, and the dirty work will fill our deep-freeze in return.”

Richie ignored their chatter as he consulted his GPS screen and led them into the woods due north. Ash swung a flashlight in a wide arc across their path. The underbrush was minimal between the briars and trees, moss-covered stones slick underfoot. The forest floor was uneven and covered with a thick layer of old leaves. Dean clicked on his flashlight and scanned the ground around the base of the tree trunks that they passed, sliding the light beam up the trunks as he looked for any signs of bear activity.

Five or ten minutes into the hike the terrain began to turn uphill and they heard a distant shot of gunfire that rang through the forest. Dean stared off in the direction of the shot. The mountains could distort sound easily, but he thought it was closer to Rufus’ homestead.

“I wonder if it’s back at Rufus’,” Richie breathed, obviously thinking the same thing. There was something _off_ about his tone that made Dean side-eye him carefully and wonder exactly what Rufus had offered him in return for the animal, aside from free camping. “Come on,” Richie said and took off, setting a fast pace as he began to climb a steep hillside in front of them that was strewn with larger boulders.

Dean took his time, Ash just behind him, climbing around the boulders and using the trees that looked stable for support along the way. Ahead of them, Richie scaled the steep hillside, Sam in tow, sometimes crawling over large boulders instead of attempting the loose soil.

There was a slight plateau at the top of the hill before the ground began to slope down, nothing but trees and inky darkness as far as Dean could see. He thought he could hear the steady rush of water of a larger creek or stream running somewhere nearby.

“We should spread out here, like this,” Richie said, pointing down the mountain with each hand, arms about 45 degrees apart. “Walk steady, same pace?” He looked at Dean and Sam. “We have to be careful not to cross, not to mistake each other. Keep lights on unless we’re close to something.”

“What’s the whistle code?” Sam asked. 

“One sharp whistle to check where we’re at, how far apart. Two times in a row if we find a trail or catch sight of something, three times patterned for SOS,” Ash recited.

“I want to know how close to Rufus’ we’re getting,” Dean said. He stared at Richie, ignoring Ash and Sam. “I don’t want to get shot by him or whoever else is out here shooting. No vests, nighttime... I’ve got a buzz, man, not a death wish.”

“He’s watching his corrals,” Richie said, unperturbed. His customary grin didn’t waver. “That was probably him, defending his cattle.”

“You have an awful lot of faith in that old bastard,” Dean muttered. He shook his head but didn’t bother arguing further. It sounded like Rufus. He’d do anything to protect his ass, even go over Bobby’s head. He wondered if they were close to the property line between Rufus and Bobby’s property. “Alright, let’s split up. Sammy, you whistling Dixie?”

Sam huffed but whistled sharply, his noise loud and clear. Ash replied with his own trill, a little higher but just as loud.

“Let’s do this,” Dean said, giving a sharp nod at Richie before he and Sam started into the woods, angled away from his friends, his flashlight beam leading the way. They followed the hillside’s gentle downward slope, walking over large stones and pebbles, ducking between trees. Dean continued to scan the ground and the trees with his flashlight as he navigated the mountain, skirting large, dark patches of brush and rhododendron thickets, Sam on his heels. The sound of moving water grew louder the further they hiked.

He hadn’t yet caught any signs of bear activity when two sharp whistles pierced the air, from the direction Ash and Richie had started walking. Sam moved in front of Dean and he followed his brother as they moved toward the whistles.

They found Ash crouched in front of a tree and Richie standing next to him. Ash’s scope light illuminated a large pile of scat clearly, though it looked dry and older. Dean caught the claw marks up and down the trunk in his own beam, then turned and started to scan the trees around them.

Ten feet away, Dean caught sight of another clawed tree and walked up to it. Up close, there were several long, gouging marks that looked wider and deeper than typical bear markings, something closer to the marks left by deer rubbing their antlers. He stared hard at the trunk, noting the progression of the marks as they moved down the trunk. A few years ago Dean had been in the wrong place and watched as baby bears chased each other up a tree, one smacking and clawing after the other. These were much larger, adult markings.

“Clear tracks, my man,” Richie said, joining Dean. He pointed his light at the ground a few feet away, where a couple large paw prints could be seen in a muddy patch. From the deep claw marks to the edge of the large pad, the print looked like it was easily six or seven inches long. There were several other, smaller prints through the mud, bird tracks and something small, raccoon or opossum, which crisscrossed over the larger prints.

“Let’s do this,” Ash said cheerfully, his rifle propped up on his shoulder. “We sticking together? Splitting up?”

“Come on,” Richie said, ignoring the questions completely. His light moved as he scanned all of the trees around them. His demeanor had changed completely, his eyes narrowed but focused. A few yards away they found another tree that was missing strips of bark and Richie walked toward it, not bothering to look back at the rest of the group. Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, who shrugged. It looked like they had caught a trail, and Dean wanted to follow it, even if Richie was acting weird.

Dean fell in step behind Richie, footsteps indicating that Ash and Sam were following him. Richie led the trail as they hiked, continuing to sweep the ground with his flashlight, walking in the direction where they found signs of activity, scored trees and disheveled underbrush. The trail faded once or twice and they scouted several yards until someone caught it again, a print here or there, tree bark cluttered with claw marks. With such an abundance of marks, the trail seemed like a regular hunting route for the bear. Dean wanted to chalk it up to dumb luck, but Richie had never been that lucky. They walked five or ten minutes before they started hearing foraging noises from a distance, rustling and occasional snapping.

Richie turned back toward them as the noise grew, his brow furrowed. “Do you hear that?”

“Doesn’t sound like any bear that I’ve heard,” Dean said, stopping to listen. It sounded like something breaking tree limbs, possibly a bear. He looked at Ash, who had the most hunting experience out of the group. Bears foraging at night were unusual, as they settled into their dens for the night after an active stretch at dusk, but it wasn’t completely unheard-of. “What are you thinking?”

“An eagle?” Ash offered, his eyes narrowed as he focused on the sound. Dean started to ask him how he knew what an eagle sounded like, but decided he didn’t want to know. Ash continued, “Sounds like a beak, doesn’t it? Chomping something up, I’d say.” Dean definitely didn’t want to know.

“I’m not killing any eagles,” Sam said. He pushed to the center of the group. “They’re endangered.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean said sarcastically. “Somehow I don’t think an eagle has marked these trees. Did Rufus actually see any bears?” That was directed at Richie, who had slid one hand down a thick tree trunk, fingers dripped into the crevice where the bear, or Ash’s eagle, had dug out a portion of it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice distant and far away. When he turned, his eyes were slightly unfocused, but then he twitched and they were normal again. He nodded somberly at Dean. “It’s been a while.” Richie leveled a look at Ash. “They wouldn’t leave that,” he said and pointed to another heaping pile of scat at the base of a tree.

It was enough to give it a chance, Dean thought as they fanned out, Ash and Richie walking several yards away, before they proceeded forward, toward the noise. The running water was louder and clearer now, seeming just as close, if not closer, than the weird noises.

After a couple of feet, Dean paused to listen again. The noise was definitely growing louder in front of him, like something large shifting or walking around, rubbing against the trees, or maybe chomping on something crunchy, like bark or bones. No one called out or whistled, so Dean kept walking, flashlight skimming the trees as he swung it back and forth in front of him. Sam crept behind him.

“Shit,” Dean heard Sam gasp behind him, and his body snapped back toward his brother, catching sight of Sam’s wide eyes locked on something to their left. Following Sam’s gaze, Dean peered forward, flashlight forgotten at his side, and stared into the darkness between the trees until he caught sight of a large shadow that stretched up the side of one tree, darker than the surrounding gloom. The sound of bark ripping and snapping tore through the clearing as sharp claws dug their way down the tree. As it moved, Dean thought it looked to be six or seven feet tall, a fully grown black bear.

Despite the shock of its size, Dean’s response was immediate, trained into him from a very early age. His rifle went up, steady against his shoulder, finger firm against the trigger, with an eye squinted as he peered through the sight. Sam whistled to notify the others as Dean took a deep breath that he held steady. Eyes trained on the shadow, Dean exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

The beast screeched the moment the bullet hit, the shadow shifting and spreading until-- 

Dean stared forward and his arms dropped, flashlight long gone and rifle limp against his side. 

Wings. It looked like the bear had _wings._

Twisting, the shadow’s darkness flared out sharply before it pulled back in, and the beast roared in pain, the enraged bellow thundering through the forest. Dean took an involuntary step back, rifle grip loose, and waited to see if the beast was going to run away or charge toward him. Before it could do anything, two shots were fired from over his shoulder. The shadow dropped, crashing into the underbrush.

The next few moments passed in a blur as Dean vaulted forward, running in the direction where he thought the creature had fallen, fingers curled around the handle of his rifle. He almost missed it because _it_ was vastly different than what he had imagined. His mind conjured a massive creature with dark fur and giant appendages. Reality was Dean growling, "Shit!" as he nearly tripped over what looked to be a dark shadow until moonlight falling through a break in the canopy exposed a patch of glossy black feathers. As Dean stumbled back a step, he focused on the feathers until he saw the wide set of wings that curled protectively around a prone form on the ground. The wings were long and possibly several feet wide when spread out, and the moonlit feathers were dirty and askew. 

Sam’s footsteps stopped just behind him and he heard a sharp inhalation as Sam held up the flashlight Dean had dropped, the beam spotlighting the wings. Dean glanced over his shoulder and saw Sam’s shocked expression. When he looked back, the wings were gone. On the forest floor lay a still, rumpled trench coated figure with a dark stain spreading across one shoulder. Dean crouched next to the person and asked Sam for the flashlight.

The dark stain was fresh blood and the person had a mess of black hair. One hand lay against the forest floor and moved slightly against the leaves, fingers curling and opening.

The gunshot looked like a clean shoulder wound from what Dean could see, though the ever-spreading patch of blood was concerning. He walked around and shone the flashlight on the guy's face lying against the ground, with tousled dark hair, lashes, and stubble. He looked solemn and asleep, despite his injuries. Dean skimmed the light over his face and watched as the guy's lashes split apart and bright blue eyes peered up at him.

A sense of _knowing_ pierced through Dean, the awkward weight in his chest shifting within him. He could feel it warm and tighten up into a tight, possessive space in his chest as he stared into those eyes and felt the ghost of a lifetime of memories skim the surface of his mind. It felt like looking at someone he knew but couldn’t quite remember, someone he wanted to trust, to assist...

“Can’t. See,” the guy rasped, struggling to raise a hand toward Dean. “Don’t let… see. me. Can’t see. me.” He coughed weakly. Pushed limply at Dean with the one hand, his eyes falling shut. “Go.”

“Dean?” Sam said, his voice breaking through Dean’s reverie. Dean snapped back to reality and sat on his heels, stunned by how lost he’d been in strange emotion, like a spell now broken. Dean blinked and the guy was gone. Vanished, nothing left but a vague impression in the leaves. Dean may have been convinced the guy had never been there, except the _thing_ in his chest felt like it was alive, and if he concentrated on it, he thought he could something respond.

“Sam! Dean!” They could hear Ash and Richie crashing through the underbrush, one of them yelling as they ran toward the brothers. Dean stood and turned, taking a few steps toward Sam.

Sam stared at Dean, hard, but he didn’t say anything. They stood together in silence for a few seconds before Richie stumbled through the trees toward them, gasping as he lurched to a halt, face red. He clutched his chest with one hand, the other pressing his shotgun against his thigh. Ash was just behind him, hair wild and face red but otherwise composed. Deliberately, Sam asked, “Dean, did you see anything?”

Dean turned and looked through the trees. “I, uh.” He cleared his throat. Glanced down, toward the place where he’d found the guy. The guy was definitely gone. “Yeah. I mean, no. I thought I hit it but there’s no trail.” He wiped one shaky hand down his face. “I don’t know, one moment it seemed like I was right there. But I can’t find anything.”

“We heard it, man,” Richie said, still breathing hard. “That sound was insane.” He stared into the forest where Dean was looking. “Okay. Well, we know something’s out there.” He let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “That was insane,” he repeated, hand up against his chest.

“You’re telling me,” Dean said, as his pulse race in his neck and wrists. He’d seen something huge in the trees. He wasn’t sure how the vanishing guy played into it, or why the weight in his chest was suddenly awake, when it had been dormant since he’d woken up with it that morning. He was sure they’d stumbled onto _something_ , but he didn’t know what.

Richie didn't say much when Sam dropped him off back at his campsite, only mumbled something about sleeping before he took off toward his tent. Ash shrugged and grinned at the brothers, holding his rifle against his chest.

"Get in," Dean said, handing the keys to Sam. He pointed at Ash. "But you're riding bitch."

Ash boarded at the Roadhouse, where he rented a back room, and he thanked Sam when the truck pulled up outside the entrance. Dean stepped out so Ash could slid off the bench seat. He slapped Dean on the shoulder as they passed, said he’d see him later. Dean climbed back in, slammed the door, and rested his forehead against the window. He watched his breath fog up the glass as Sam pulled off and turned out of the parking lot.

“You saw them, right?” Dean asked, his words beginning to slur with exhaustion. He couldn’t stop thinking about the black feathers, giant wings much like a tattered black bird.

Sam didn’t answer for a moment. Finally he cleared his throat, but continued to stare forward through the windshield as he drove. “The wings?” There was a breath’s pause. “Yeah. I think.”

“What the hell was that?" Dean blurted out. “Wings, no wings, guy, no guy... Either he moved very fast, or something else happened back there.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t look away from the road. “I’m... not sure, Dean. There aren’t many explanations for a guy with wings.” The words settled heavily in the air between them. “Then again, what we saw in the trees seemed a lot bigger than that guy. I don’t know.”

“Glad I’m not the only one,” Dean muttered, rubbing his face hard with his hands. Both his beer buzz and adrenaline rush were fading. He managed to stumble into the house when they made it home, and take a couple steps into the living room before he collapsed on the couch, a limb or two dangling when his body crashed completely.

....

_Dean sat on a park bench and watched the kids play. He couldn’t always afford to play with Sam when they were younger, because someone had to be the lookout when monsters existed, but he had enjoyed watching Sam’s grin as he swung higher and higher._

_He watched stranger’s kids now, innocent things with good parents and normal lives. Not the fucked up shit his alcoholic dad had put them through._

_Something moved next to him and he felt displaced air as he heard the flutter of wings. Dean knew before he looked over that Cas sat on the bench next to him, facing forward. A long moment passed before he glanced over and saw the familiar tan trench coat, navy tie hanging over a white shirt. He remembered watching the bright red stain spread across the shoulder of that coat, but in his dream the fabric was spotless._

_“Hello again, Dean.”_

_“Why did you leave today? You were hurt.” Dean saw no reason in trying to deny what happened. Not in his dreams, not when he remembered Castiel clearly._

_“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted, glancing down at his hands. They rested in his lap. “Would you return to me tomorrow? I think I need your help.”_

_“You -- you have wings. And you need my assistance.” Dean’s laughter was never more self-deprecating. “I don’t think so.”_

_The being that he somehow recognized as Castiel, as an angel that fell and died and killed and did so much more for humanity, for him, needed his help? Never mind that it happened elsewhere, in his dreams or another world, something that didn't quite exist except where it spun in silken, dust-covered cobwebs that cluttered the corners of his mind. He knew this angel was capable._

_“I do,” Castiel said. He didn’t look away from Dean. “I know you can feel it.” The thing in Dean’s chest curled up tighter, protectively. “Please find me.”_

....

The first thing he felt when he woke up was the weight in his chest, hot and aching. When he thought of the night before, of the person or creature he’d found in the woods, the ache grew. Disgruntled but aware he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened, Dean headed to his room to change out of his smoke-smelly clothes before he went back to Rufus’ property.

Sam was sprawled out on the couch when Dean walked back through the hallway, TV flickering in the background. The volume was muted and a book was open in his hands. Sam raised his eyes as Dean passed by.

“Are you going back to the woods?” Sam asked. He dropped the book onto his chest and moved to sit up, watching Dean walk into the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Dean admitted as he returned with a glass of milk. “It’s really weird,” he said before he took a long drink. “It’s like I know the guy, Sammy. It felt like I recognized him.” He looked up at Sam, who stared back with raised brows.

“Yeah? Then who is he? What’s his name? What _is_ he?” It sounded like Sam couldn’t fire off the questions at him fast enough. “Why did he have wings? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know that yet,” Dean said, “but I think he might need my help.”

“You think?” Sam said flatly, arms crossed over his chest, voice already reflecting his disbelief. Teenage skepticism was strong.

“I think I know him. I have all of these...” he couldn’t explain the fragments of memories or the way they felt like ghosts of someone else’s memories, someone that looked just like him and talked just like him, but wasn’t _quite_ him. The way his body responded to the guy, the thing he could feel in his chest that had reacted to his proximity. It all sounded ridiculous, like some fantasy novel bullshit. Dean shrugged. “I don’t remember, exactly. It’s just a feeling, a --” _connection_ , his mind finished for him, but he couldn’t say that out loud. Couldn’t even say it to himself, because he didn’t know what it was. There was no reason to name something he didn’t understand. Dean had always found it easier just to ignore those things.

“It’s just that he’s hurt,” he finished lamely, and he knew the redirect was obvious. “I think one of us shot him last night. I’m going back to take him to the hospital, if I can find him. If not, I'll come home and forget about it.”

“Right.” Sam huffed and rolled his eyes. He picked at the binding of his book. “Look, I don’t know what I saw last night. But if you go back out there, take your phone and a flare. Stay safe, and don’t be stupid.”

“Always, Sammy,” Dean promised and blew his brother a mocking kiss goodbye. The eye roll as Sam flounced back to his book was worth it. Dean didn’t want or need Sam’s concern. He'd been taking care of both of them for as long as he could remember, and he’d continue to take care of Sam so his brother could focus on what was important, which was building a better life for himself than what he’d been set up with at the start.

Dean stopped at the gas station at the edge of town to grab coffee and a donut. On second thought, he grabbed a couple extra doughnuts and a bottle of water before he took the unmarked, single-lane dirt road that led to the back end of Rufus’ property. He drove the same route he’d followed the night before into the woods, with his windows down and Creedence cranked up.

Everything looked different in the daytime. The trees didn’t press in as closely, and overhead the shadows between and behind the trees weren’t as ominous as the breathing, inky darkness of night. Now he could see into the forest, mostly other trees, sometimes the slope of the mountainside or sandstone bluff, occasionally a winding creek dipping and sliding through the woods, but more than absolute shadows of night.

It was a decent drive back to where they’d started the night. Richie’s car was gone, but his tent remained set up in the clearing. From there Dean tried to remember the exact path Richie had led him down as he drove. When he whipped into the dead end, he knew he was in the right place.

His tire tracks weren’t the only fresh ones, sliding through wet mud as he rolled to an abrupt stop. Their tracks from the previous night had dried, revealing another vehicle had pulled in at some point since. Dean stared hard, tried to size up the print or width, but the tracks were smudged, unreadable.

He grabbed the Colt before he locked the truck. Dropping his car keys in his pocket, Dean looked at the trees for a moment, catching marks they’d missed at night. Even here so many trees had lost patches of bark, trunks scratched or rubbed against until the bark splintered and broke away. Starting into the woods, he checked his compass before heading north. He saw a pile of scat as he walked and thought of Richie’s fervor for the hunt. That gave him a pause, the nearly maniacal single-mindedness Richie’d shown once they started talking about hunting bears... Something had been off about Richie after he entered the forest, but Dean couldn’t figure out _why_.

Dean tried to orient himself within the forest but there were no clear signs, just trees and boulders scattered throughout the woods as he followed his compass north, and the distant sound of moving water that grew closer the longer he walked. He skirted around and up hills, and he swatted at spider webs and gnats. Sweat dripped down his face and into his eyes as he ducked under low hanging limbs, trying to avoid the random thickets of rhododendron throughout the forest.

When he scaled the hill he remembered stumbling over the night before, he stood on the crest and thought about what happened next; how Richie and Ash had walked more to the left, leaving him and Sam to head slightly to the right, or east. When he’d walked far enough that he was closer to the previous night’s location, he cleared his throat and called out, “Hey. Hey, man. You out here?”

He hadn't really expected a response, but he still felt disappointed by the forest's silence, quiet except for a few birds chirping overhead and the buzz of a mosquito moving close by his face. The whatever in his chest stirred, tightening before settling back into the solid weight it had become.

His footsteps slowed as he looked for signs of what had happened the night before, smashed foliage, footprints, broken twigs, or anything else that would lead him back to the place he’d seen the guy with the wings. He’d hiked another hundred feet or so when he caught sight of footprints in the decomposing leaves, raw black earth exposed where someone’s shoes had dug in. He followed the trail until he lost it completely. Ahead of him was a large tree that bore long claw marks down one side. Something had dug into this tree around eye level, and the marks matched what he thought he had seen in the shadows, before he fired his shot. 

Dean tried to recall exactly what happened, his memories tainted by adrenaline and beer, as he reached out and skimmed his fingers over the broken bark. It was easier for him to trust his instincts. Somewhere in the woods was a person, possibly someone with wings, and that person might need his help. He or his brother may have shot him. Weird feelings and connections aside, he felt like he owed the guy the common courtesy of checking on him, if he was still in the woods.

“Anybody here?” he tried again, turning away from the tree. He held up the water bottle he’d brought along. “I brought you something to drink. Figured you might be in pain. It looked like you might have had an injury.” When he spoke, he could feel something shift in the air around him, something he wouldn’t have noticed while drunk, something that pulled at hazy dream memories. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood beneath the weight of someone else’s gaze. Dean turned slowly, attempting to hold himself with confidence and in a non-threatening way, arms loose at his sides, water bottle clutched in one hand, the other open and empty. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he tried again.

Something moved behind him as he moved. Everything that followed happened so quickly that he could only remember the snap of a twig behind him and the following flurry of movement. As he turned, water bottle clutched in his hand, a blur of tan collided with him, hard. They were both sent tumbling down the hillside. Dean fell flat on his back, skull smacking the soft earth so hard that it knocked the breath of out him in one loud whoosh. A firm forearm pressed against his neck and up against his jaw, holding his head still and cutting off an ample portion of his air supply. Sharp knees dug into the sides of his lower abdomen, his body forced still beneath the weight of Castiel as he straddled Dean. The water bottle lay on the ground near him, where it had landed.

None of that mattered to Dean. He found his gaze locked with the bright blue eyes he remembered from the night before, and once again he was immersed with the sense of knowing, the weight in his chest active and bright. He didn’t trust the easy camaraderie that he didn’t understand, strange memories like dreams that didn’t belong to him, long stares and confidences and broken but renewed trust. Demons and angels and monsters, not just bedtime stories, and he and Sam stood in the center of it all. He didn’t have to believe what his mind was conjuring, but he couldn’t deny that he felt like he’d known the guy his entire life. _Castiel_. The name skittered through his mind and the spot in his chest responded with warmth, its heat spreading beneath his skin.

“What are you doing?” the man demanded ( _Castiel_ , Dean’s mind insisted), pressing forward against Dean’s throat, cutting off more air. “I told you to leave me here.”

Dean spluttered but couldn’t breathe to force out words; the more he moved, the harder Castiel pressed, until white speckles were dancing and growing brighter and brighter in Dean’s vision. He slapped at the ground blindly for leverage, for surrender, and even tried to kick out at the guy with his knee, but to no avail.

“Well?” Castiel demanded, with a snarl, teeth bared, eyes cold.

“Can’t,” Dean managed to gasp faintly. That sound was enough for Castiel to realize what he was doing to Dean and he immediately let up on the pressure on Dean’s neck, but didn’t remove his arm. The sudden influx of oxygen-rich air sent Dean into a coughing and wheezing fit as he attempted to catch his breath. 

“What the hell,” he managed to rasp out after the coughing died down and his lungs stopped seizing. They were only inches apart, the guy staring intently at him, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth set in an unforgiving line, and with his weight keeping Dean pressed against the ground.

“What do you want with me?” Castiel asked. His gaze raked over Dean’s face as if seeking any hidden explanation.

“I brought you water,” Dean said dumbly, eyes sliding to where the bottle had fallen. He hadn’t expected to be jumped. Though he was sort of terrified by the raw strength of the man, his body was also unexpectedly interested. He didn’t have the inclination to think that reaction through, so he ignored what was happening below his belt. “You looked bad. Don’t want anyone dying out here because I shot them.”

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel said flatly, but something in his gaze softened. He was still scowling, but his arm wasn’t as firm against Dean’s neck as it had been. “I told you that last night.”

“You didn’t look fine,” Dean pointed out, “and you didn’t sound it, either. Granted, today, you seem to be much stronger.” He grimaced and wished he could rub his neck. It ached, but he didn’t dare move yet. “But last night you were bleeding.” He paused. Stared back because there was nothing else he could do and nowhere else to look. Apparently that was the right thing to do, because Castiel released his hold and shifted to crouch next to Dean instead of over him, but still way too close for Dean’s comfort. Dean took a deep breath, and then another, before he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up. Facing away from Castiel, Dean reached for the water bottle as he stood. He patted his pocket to make sure the Colt was still there and made a furtive adjustment to his crotch while he was facing away. When he turned back, Castiel was standing and staring intently at him.

“Why are you here, Dean Winchester?” Castiel asked, an undertone of urgency marking the words.

“How do you know my name? Why do I feel like I’ve known you my entire life, _Castiel_?” Dean snapped in response, the name awkward and thick on his tongue, much like the hazy memories of a life that wasn't his. The situation should have been something confined to a book or movie, remembering fragments of another life as he would remember a half-forgotten dream, and feeling such a strong visceral connection to a stranger. It wasn’t something that happened in real life. “What’s going on out here?”

Castiel shot him an unreadable look, eyes dark and flinty. “I wasn’t aware you could sense that,” he murmured more to himself than to Dean, and then said louder, “This situation is a byproduct of something that is happening in another reality. In that plane, my grace and your soul are bonded. What you have felt is an echo of that connection.” He didn’t say ‘and reaching for,’ but he didn’t have to; Dean could feel the yearning even though he chose to ignore it. He wondered about the nature of the bond forged between the alternate version of himself and the alternate version of Castiel, if what he was experiencing was only an ‘echo’ of their bond. "The demon," Cas continued, "is from that reality. He’s here for griffin eggs. The last mating pair of griffins live here, in the wilds of these mountains. He requires their eggs to perform a spell that will seal the gates of heaven permanently."

Dean let out a sharp bark of laughter. Even with the swirl of dusty dream-memories, even with the strange thing happening to his chest, it sounded ridiculous. “ _Right_. And my name is really Robert Plant.”

Castiel gave Dean a sideway glance before he seemed to catch sight of something in the distance. His eyes narrowed, attention suddenly focused forward. “You have to go,” he said, turning back to Dean. There was no room for question in his tone. “He is coming back.” 

Dean didn’t move. “Who? The demon?” He asked, crossing his arms.

Castiel planted both hands against Dean’s chest and pushed, forcing him to stumble back a couple steps. “Move. I need to hide. You haven’t seen me. _I don’t exist to you_ ,” he hissed, not looking away from Dean, his expression impassible.

“I’m coming with you,” Dean said, the words falling between them before he realized he’d spoken. Castiel might have forced him away, but Dean remembered the bloodstain on his coat from the night before, and didn’t want to leave him alone in the forest.

Eyes narrowed as he stared at Dean, hands clenched into fists at his sides, Castiel seemed to consider the possibility. His furrowed brow and set mouth made Dean think he was going to disagree, maybe vanish again; but then Castiel’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded once, sharply. “You will need supplies. I can’t travel as I would normally and the journey may take a day or two. We will be travelling through the forest.”

Dean was already calculating what he could carry in his camp pack. It had been a year or two since he’d gone camping. Hunting trips that didn't end in a drive home saw him retiring to a cabin at dusk. His gear waited in the bottom of his closet, dusty but useable.

“Come on,” he said and turned south. “I’m parked this way.” His mind was racing but he pushed his questions and thoughts aside, and focused on retracing his steps. Castiel followed him.

....


	3. Part 3

### 

They were halfway back, maybe more, when Cas paused, eyes narrowed as he looked forward, head cocked slightly to the side. “They’re here,” he said. He straightened and looked at Dean, who had stopped and was watching him. “He has your brother.”

All other thoughts died, and the blood drained from Dean’s face. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides. He started after Cas, who was already walking again. “Who does?”

“Anarazel. He was the demon sent to procure the eggs.” Castiel spoke as he walked, the breeze carrying his words back to Dean. “He typically has two helpers, but I haven’t located them.”

A few minutes later, they saw Richie and Sam hiking toward them. Richie’s face was set in a determined snarl, which was unlike the good-natured guy that Dean knew. He walked very close to Sam’s back, ready to catch him if he tried to run. Sam was disheveled but otherwise looked unharmed.

“What the hell, man?” Dean demanded, indignant as he started forward toward them, focused on one thing only, and that was getting to Sam. Sam attempted to mouth ‘no,’ when Dean drew his pistol, but Dean kept walking. Richie's eyes flicked toward Dean, and that was his only warning before he slammed into an invisible barrier.

Castiel had carefully begun to edge around Richie, but Richie turned to him with a triumphant smile, keeping Sam pinned between them. Dean caught the glint of a dagger held between Sam’s shoulder blades and his grip on the Colt tightened. 

“Castiel. Why am I not surprised they chose you for this task? Even in other realities you are his lapdog.” Richie smirked as he indicated Dean. He blinked slowly and when he opened his eyes again, they were pure coal-black. No other color remained. The sight horrified Dean and he recoiled, taking an automatic step back. Richie chuckled, the sound dark and tainted.

Castiel’s blank expression didn’t change as he stopped and stared at Richie. “Anarazel,” he stated calmly. “Free the younger Winchester and flee this realm.”

“He’s - he’s not Richie?” Dean stared between the two of them, but neither looked at him. “Where’s Richie?”

“Oh, I’m not Richie,” the-thing-that-looked-like-Richie-but-wasn’t said, with a cruel smile that curved Rich’s lips into a mockery of his big-hearted grin. “But he’s in here,” he gestured to himself with his free hand, “hidden away, watching. Screaming in terror.” It licked Richie’s lips. “Feeding me.”

“And you,” it continued, finally looking away from Castiel as it took a deliberate step toward Dean, which also brought Sam one step closer; “you know what’s going on here, even if you’re too stupid to realize it. You did exactly what I wanted, leading me to the angel.” The thing looked back at Castiel. “And Castiel here will do what I want, or else I’m going to force him to watch while I kill you and eat you.” He licked his lips and leered at Dean. “But first, I’ll kill your brother while you watch. And then I will burn this forest to the ground, tree by tree, mountain by mountain, until I find what I’m after.”

“You’re not going to touch Sam!” Something inside Dean flared at the threat to his little brother. He shoved his chin up and pushed himself as close to the barrier as he could, the Colt cocked and pointed directly at Richie. “You’ll die first.” With Sam’s life on the line, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot, if given the chance.

Not-Rich laughed again, the sound distorted into something perverse that made Dean’s skin crawl. “Keep telling yourself that.” He stared Castiel, eyes hard, the mirth gone from his expression. “The angel knows better. Don’t you?”

“What do you want?” Castiel asked. A shining silver blade had dropped neatly out of his sleeve and into his palm as he and the demon moved slowly toward each other, Sam pinned between them.

“Same as you,” the demon replied and bared his teeth. “I want the nest, the eggs.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side. “I will lead you there, if you surrender the boy.”

The demon clucked and shook his head at Castiel, a smile spreading across his face again, and his eyes bright and mirthful. “Ah, ah, angel,” he tsked, “then what leverage would I have ensure your word? I let him go and you’ll kill me. No, it’s much safer this way. I know you won’t kill a Winchester.”

Castiel stepped forward, eyes smoldering as he glowered as the demon, shiny blade in his hand. “You overestimate my allegiances.”

“Prove it,” Richie taunted, his chin jutted up. Dean saw Sam’s shoulders tense as he watched Richie dig the knife further into Sam.

One moment Dean was pressed against the invisible barrier separating him from his brother, and the next he was stumbling forward as it collapsed. Castiel moved in the space of a breath, standing a few feet away from Richie and then lurching next to him, Castiel’s right arm extended and two fingers reaching out. When Castiel misstep and staggered, a funnel of howling, black smoke poured out between Richie’s lips, curling around Castiel once before rushing upward and away through the treetop canopy, leaving Richie’s body to collapse on the forest floor. Sam fell forward onto his knees, and after Dean caught himself, he immediately moved to his brother.

His hands were skimming down the back of Sam’s jacket before Sam could protest or move away, searching for anything that might indicate an injury. Despite a tear in his denim jacket that also ripped into the flannel beneath, Dean shifted back, satisfied his brother was okay. Only then did he hear Sam snapping at him, “Get off me, Dean, I’m _fine!_ ” as Sam pulled away to climb to his feet.

Sam made a grossed-out face at Dean and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can.” Dean rolled his eyes, dusting his hands off as he stood. “That’s how you ended up with him, right?”

Scowling, Sam glared at Dean. “When your so-called friends turn out to be kidnappers, possibly _murderers_ \--”

Castiel stepped up next to Dean. “We need to go.” His voice brokered no opposition but Dean and Sam both looked at him. “Now,” Castiel added, voice like a whip-crack in the silent forest. His eyes flicked toward Sam, then back to Dean. 

“What about him?” Dean asked. He was looking at Richie, whose shoulders moved slightly with the rise and fall of each breath, still lying where he’d collapsed on the ground behind Sam.

Castiel didn’t bother looking down. “He will wake soon with no memory of the demon. Anarazel fled. He will be back when he finds a suitable host. The sooner we leave, the better.”

Dean could feel the weight of Sam’s gaze on him as he stared back at Castiel, and said flatly, “Demon or no demon, I can’t leave Richie on the ground, unconscious.”

Castiel gave him an exasperated look and moved to crouch next to Richie, mimicking his previous gesture as he touched Richie’s forehead with two fingers. Richie vanished. “He’s in his own bed in his home. He’ll wake up in a few hours and he won’t remember anything.” He pushed himself up and dusted his hands off before turning back to Dean. “I’ll follow you.”

Sam stared between the two of them, his expression aghast. Dean scowled at him in return before he turned and resumed the hike back to his truck. Sam made a point to walk next to Dean as they began to trek out of the woods, purposefully nudging Dean with his shoulder. He spoke quietly. “Do you want to explain what just happened? What is going on?”

“Later,” Dean said sharply, ignoring Sam as he walked with his head down, shoulders tense.

....

When Castiel insisted on not being seen, Sam volunteered to sit in the bed. He smirked as Dean glared after him, hoisting himself over the tailgate. This resulted in Dean driving with someone else’s feet pushed against his side as Castiel curled into the fetal position, head next to the passenger door. Dean kept his right hand firmly on the wheel and pointedly did not look over toward the passenger side, or think about how it would look if he got pulled over and Castiel sat up as the cop walked to the vehicle. Lost in his adamant not-thinking, it took Dean a moment to recognize Rufus’ car as it approached them on the tiny back road. Rufus glared at him through his window as they passed, eyes dark. Dean watched the rusted vehicle in his rearview until the dirt road curved around the mountain. Whatever messed up crap was going on, Rufus had been mentioned a few times, and Dean wondered if that meant anything.

“What happened to Richie? How was that... demon... possessing him?”

“Anarazel finds a suitable host and forces his essence into the being, invading its cells and taking over all functions. Occasionally the host can fight back, but it is extremely difficult to resist possession.” Castiel’s voice was muffled by his position but Dean could hear fatigue lacing his words.

“And this happens regularly?” Dean asked.

“Not here,” Castiel said.

“Right, because we’re in a different reality,” Dean said, as sarcastically as possible.

“Exactly.” Castiel deadpanned. Dean fought back the urge to roll his eyes at Castiel's obliviousness. “It isn’t as easy to escape from Hell here, which is why the griffins were placed on this plane. Anarazel is the demon that secures and hides treasure from men and angels alike, probably the only demon that could traverse realities to find the griffins.”

“What about you? Did you escape Heaven and force your way inside some poor schmuck?" Dean took in the outfit again, rumpled and bloodstained trench coat, dirty slacks, untucked shirt missing a couple buttons, and the green tie. "Some unlucky desk jockey?"

"No. When the devout pray for greater purpose, my brethren and I contact individuals that suit our objective best and make arrangements with them. My vessel, Jimmy Novak, was nearing the end of a long battle with terminal cancer. I offered absolution in exchange for use of his physical body as my vessel."

Dean turned the words around in his mind. "You killed him?"

"He was confined to a bed, due to the advanced stage of the cancer itself and the physical toll of the chemotherapy and radiation. He felt he was already dead. I granted his prayer request and escorted him to Heaven a few weeks early."

"That's cheating," Dean said, uneasy with the idea of bartering the remainder of a life for a one-way ticket through the pearly gates.

Castiel's inflection remained even. "Jimmy thought it was a miracle to be blessed with higher purpose and freed from his mortal torment."

“Where are we going?” Dean attempted to redirect, pushing aside his immediate discomfort with the idea of walking around in someone else's body. Instead, he focused on trying to make sense of what was going on and what they were going to do next.

Castiel hesitated before he responded. “You and your brother wield a peculiar weapon that left a powerful wound.” Dean could feel the Colt in the waist of his jeans, metal cool against his side. 

“The Colt?” Dean asked, and he thought of gunshot wounds that smoked and bodies that crackled with the dying light of a possessing spirit. The images were so vivid that he didn’t know if they were memories or dreams; for a moment, his world spun, ears full of white noise as his mind scrambled to regain its footing. An entire lifetime felt like it was lurking on the edges of his mind, something just beyond his reach, like dreams he remembered upon waking, but promptly forgotten. The Colt felt like a normal gun at his side, but something in his mind insisted it was much more. Though his hands didn’t waver, his head spun for several seconds with a scramble of vying memories and non-memories, so much that he wasn’t sure what had actually happened and what had to have been a dream. He stared at the road and swallowed hard, his grip on the wheel firm as his knuckles turned white. 

“Think of it as a family heirloom,” Castiel answered matter-of-factly. “That gun is extremely powerful, capable of killing nearly all beings in existence with the correct ammunition. Trace amounts of lead and copper would otherwise have no effect on my powers. There’s a lake within the mountains that can heal me. It will also lead me back to my charge.”

Ammunition sparked his interest, but as Dean’s mind settled he had several questions. “What lake? Your charge?”

“Ataga'hi is the most recent name mankind has appointed to the lake. It is a very old spring that is hidden within the wilds of these mountains. Its waters have healing properties for my kind.” Castiel’s voice remained steady and devoid of emotion. “I told you, I am here on orders to protect one of the last remaining griffin clutches.”

Just as the dust was beginning to settle, everything stirred up again and he thought of bits of various diner conversations that sounded similar, locations and things that shouldn’t exist but somehow did, Sam and his dad at his side, sometimes Castiel. They faded too quickly for him to grasp any details, and he was left with a vaguely nauseous feeling that he was mixing up old dreams with his life. His temples began to pound. No more questions, Dean thought, and he focused on the road.

....

Surrounded by a cove of trees, their house could barely be seen from the road. Dean erred on the side of caution and pulled around into the back yard so Castiel could follow them inside. Dean dropped his keys on the kitchen table and shrugged his jacket off while Sam brushed past him and walked straight to his room.

Castiel followed Dean to the hallway and looked around with wide eyes, taking in everything from the dark blue walls to the dingy brown carpet.

“Any idea how long this will take?” Dean asked, mentally preparing himself for the worst case scenario of a week or longer. 

Castiel straightened, expression thoughtful. “If we are expedient, two, maybe three days.”

_Expedient_. Dean added an extra day. “Give me a few minutes to get my gear together,” he said, and Castiel made a faint noise of agreement.

Dean rapped on Sam’s cracked bedroom door before he pushed it open and peeked inside. Sam was already in his computer chair, typing at an email or something, though his fingers stilled when Dean started speaking.

“Pack for a week of hiking, as light as possible,” Dean said and gave Sam a thumb’s up before he slipped back out of the room.

It didn’t take Dean long to check his gear, decide on a thin, safety-blanket insulated sleep sack instead of a sleeping bag, and use the extra space for food. When Dean crossed the hall with his pack, Castiel was examining the handful of photos Dean kept framed and mounted on the wall, a couple school photos of Sam when he was younger, two of the only four photos he possessed of his mom, and the only picture of his dad he would hang up. It was a snapshot of the three of them, Dean, his dad, and a toddler Sam, holding up strung trout at a fishing contest. Dean said nothing as he walked into the kitchen.

After he’d tossed his tightly packed backpack into the bed of his truck, Dean rapped on Sam’s door and told him it was time, and then he guided Castiel away from the books and movies he and Sam kept on a bookshelf in the living room.

“Which direction?” Dean asked, holding his laminated hunting map out to Castiel. He preferred the tried and true methods, map and compass, instead of relying on electronics that could have satellite or battery failure. There were several places on Bobby’s property where he could hide his truck and hike out into the forest. Over the years he’d drawn on the map, covering all of the roads he could access in pen, highlighting the outline of Bobby’s property, and he had marked the shacks he’d found scattered throughout.

Castiel looked at the map with some interest, eyes skimming over the marks. “Northwest,” he replied, touching the map. Though there was nothing indicating a lake on the map, Dean was relieved that the area Castiel indicated was on Bobby’s land, at least a mile or two from where Bobby’s land met Rufus’. It would be a considerable journey into the wilds that Bobby owned, but Dean knew he was welcome to traverse Bobby’s property.

The closest he could get would take a bit of driving on roads he hadn’t travelled in months, maybe longer. A star on the map represented an old hunting cabin that looked like the closest they could get before hiking into the forest. He and Sam had used the place a lot when they were younger and Dean depended on hunting to feed them. It was a place he could park, if the roads were clear, and maybe spend the first night. With a rough plan in mind, Dean pushed Sam’s door open this time.

“Time to go,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the front door. Sam was still sitting in his computer chair, and his arms were crossed over his chest. He shook his head.

“I can’t just vanish from school for a week for no reason. You haven’t explained anything to me. Where are we going? What happened to Richie?” Sam leaned forward in his seat. His mouth was twisted in a tight, angry frown. “I was just held at _knifepoint_ over this guy, Dean!”

“I’ll admit, it sounds crazy,” Dean said, stepping into Sam’s room to sit on the side of his bed, “but I saw what happened with Richie, and that wasn’t normal, Sammy. You’re safest with me right now. I’m asking you to trust me, see this one through. It’ll be one for old times, think of it as hunting and camping.”

“You know this sounds ridiculous, right?” Sam frowned at Dean before he dropped his gaze and uncrossed his arms. “If I hadn’t seen wings last night...”

“Yeah, but you did,” Dean said, reaching out to slap Sam’s knee before he stood. “So pack your light camping gear and come on. We’re going to see this through and get back to school work and college applications.”

....

Camping packs were in the back with Sam, Castiel was curled up on the front seat again, and Dean made a quick call to Bobby as he stuck the key in the ignition. He hoped to catch voicemail, but Bobby answered the next ring and Dean had to tell him he needed a few days off for a family thing that had come up.

"What family thing? I'm the only family you've got!" Bobby’s skepticism was thick.

Dean tried to scramble for cover. "Something came up, me and Sam are getting out and going hunting--"

Bobby cut him off and Dean knew he’d said the wrong thing. "Unless you're hunting coyote or skunk, it ain't hunting season, boy! What the hell are you getting into? You gonna need to talk about it?"

At least that wasn’t hard for him to answer. “No, Bobby, I don’t need to _talk_ about it.” He pointedly ignored it when Bobby muttered, “Good.”

“I’ll see you next week,” Dean said and hung up before Bobby could say anything else.

Cas straightened up after Dean made several turns into the backwoods of Bobby’s property. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken this particular set of roads that branched off from the main trail, but they were fairly clean. Trees and brush pressed in on both sides, often parting to reveal the mountain-lined horizon or a rock wall. Occasionally a large branch lay across the path that Dean could move or drive over, but the worst they had to skirt was a boulder that had fallen into the middle of the road.

Cas looked out his window as Dean drove. Dean wasn’t sure when the nickname had begun to slip into his mind, but it was comfortable.

They followed the road for miles as it wound around a mountain. Large ruts began to appear, requiring slow navigation around and through. A small creek crossed their path and the road ended shortly after, at the edge of a wide, open field that was overgrown with tall grasses and weeds. Dean stopped and shifted into park, surveying the land as he sat back. Across the field, just before it turned into a wall of trees and an upward slope, a small wooden cabin sat and stared out with two dirty glass windows. The exterior clapboard wooden walls were discolored and warped with neglect, but the structure looked stable.

When they piled out of the truck, Castiel stretched. Sam sat on the wheel hub inside the bed and waited for Dean, who watched Castiel until his line of sight was severed by the truck cab. Something in him stirred at the sight, affecting dusty memories that weren’t his but felt like they could be, so many long stares and swallows and easy smiles shared with Cas. 

“What’s the plan?” Sam asked, watching Dean pull his backpack across the truck-bed. Dean dug the first aid kit out of his toolbox, the one he kept in case of hunting scrapes, and dropped it into the backpack. Following game paths could lead them miles into the forest, and he erred on the side of caution. Dean shouldered the pack, and then slammed the tailgate into place.

“Here,” Dean pulled the map out of his pocket and held it out to Sam. When Sam unfolded it, Dean pointed to the unmarked area in the north that Cas had touched. “We’ll be hiking a few days, probably fast paced. I brought peanut butter and dried fruit, so as long as we can find a water source and stay near it, we’ll survive. Might be uncomfortable, but the cheeseburgers will be on me when we get back.”

Sam said nothing in response to Dean’s stubborn tone, though he was frowning when he started across the field, kicking at pebbles.

“He seems discontent,” Castiel said. He was walking over as Dean came around to the front of the truck.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged and grabbed a grocery bag from behind his seat. He locked up and looked the truck over before heading toward the cabin. “His world’s been turned upside for the foreseeable future, and he’s a little grumpy about that.”

“I can protect you both from demons and angels,” Castiel said. Almost absently, he added, “You’ve already had the Enochian sigils carved into your ribs, but I should do the same for Sam.”

“Sigils carved into my ribs,” Dean repeated, and he thought he could remember the faint touch of Cas' fingers against his forehead. He let out a sharp breath and said, "If that will ensure whatever happens to Richie never happens to us, do it. That, um, demon, okay, or whatever that was with Rich--is that thing going to find us? Follow you?”

“Possibly,” Castiel said, staring forward as he walked. “He will certainly try. I’m not sure how successful he will be.”

Dean’s glanced at Castiel but only saw the side of his head. “Do you want to explain what you mean by that?”

Castiel was silent, and Dean took that to mean he was weighing his options.

“What’s going on here?” Dean stepped closer as he walked, purposely. “If I hadn’t seen the wings... I wouldn't believe you were anything other than a hobo living in the woods. Mooching off of someone around here, stealing to survive. But I can’t get that sight out of my mind, those wings on the ground. Sammy thought he saw them, too. I know I’m not crazy, but this shit, your God and the Bible and all that, that doesn’t exist. And then those black eyes on Rich, the smoke, how he vanished when you touched him...” Dean shook his head. “I feel like I should be willing myself to wake up, or clicking my heels three times.”

“I’m not sure why your heels would need to be ‘clicked,’” Castiel responded with a skeptical look, “but you are speaking of the blessing of free will, the so-called ‘human condition.’ You are free to pick and choose your beliefs, even when you can clearly see otherwise.”

Dean thought about explaining Dorothy, her red shoes, and the Wizard of Oz, but dismissed the idea. Not enough time. "What do we do next?" He finally asked, glancing over at Castiel. "If he knows you're here and he’s coming back for you..."

"We have to get to the eggs first," Castiel spoke as they approached the cabin. "I will take the eggs to Heaven for protection. The demon has only found her hunting ground, which led you to me. The cave is a few days journey from here, near the lake. It’ll have to be made on foot." He grimaced, as if he would prefer another option.

"Will any of these demons come after me or my brother? That one seemed to think that I was, uh, some sort of weak spot for you."

“Anarazel and I are equally matched, but I fight with the strength and surety of heaven. I will win.” Castiel’s voice left no doubt in his own abilities. Dean couldn’t read his face and Castiel didn’t say anything else as he stared at the sky. After a moment Dean gathered his pack and walked inside.

The cabin was one open room, a counter along one wall where an old, dingy coffeepot and hot plate sat. There were a few cabinets that held battered metal cookware and a few gauze bandages. Two cots were stacked in the corner of the room, with a couple moth-ridden sleeping bags piled on top of them that they probably wouldn’t use. Sam separated one of the cots and dropped his bag on it, then followed suit. The springs were rusty and loud, but they worked.

Bobby was a traditionalist, so the place had minimal trimmings. There was a well in the back yard, but no bathroom. Dean thought Bobby used the place last deer season, but wasn’t sure. With the shop, Bobby didn’t bother spending much time in the woods outside of bow and rifle season for deer and bear. He’d given Dean permission to use the cabin when he’d given him access to his land, though Dean didn't think smuggling an angel into the wilderness was quite what he’d intended.

Dean ripped the grocery bag open on the counter and held up a pack of hotdogs. “We’re eating these tonight,” he told Sam with a grin. “One all American campfire dinner favorite, coming up.”

“Why are you cheerful?” Sam asked and gaped at his brother. “What if this is some drug-induced reality?”

“It’ll wear off eventually,” Dean smirked as he walked back through the door, hotdogs in hand. “Enjoy the break; you just nailed your SATs, right?”

Sam scowled after him.

Dean had a small fire going within a stone circle when Sam walked outside. With a few sticks, ends burnt to sanitize them, Dean roasted hot dogs. On the ground were a few packets of ketchup he’d scavenged from his truck’s console, and a bag of stale marshmallows that he’d snagged from the counter at home.

Castiel joined them around the fire, holding his hands with the palms up toward the flames to warm them.

“Only thing we’re missing is a six pack,” Dean grumbled, squirting a bit of ketchup on a blackened hot dog before taking a large bite. As he chomped, Sam wrinkled his nose at him.

“Gross,” Sam muttered, swallowing before he spoke.

“What’s that, Sammy?” Dean asked, his mouth full. He cupped his free hand around one ear and winked. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Sam rolled his eyes and looked away.

Dean glanced over at Castiel and held up the remains of his hot dog. “There’s plenty, man. Have something to eat.”

Castiel squinted in his direction. “I’m not sure I understand why such a combination of organs and various meats would be called a hot ‘dog,’ considering that none of the meats are canine. Even if my vessel required sustenance, I would pass.”

Dean opened his mouth and he took a large bite instead of responding.

Castiel disappeared again after the fire began to die down. Dean was comfortably full, stretched out on the ground with his arms crossed beneath his head. Sam sat a few feet away on an old metal-framed folding chair he’d found beneath the cabin’s small porch. The plastic weaving was warped and sun-bleached yellow, the original color unknown. He held a paperback book on his lap, one hand resting on the closed cover.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” Sam asked. He stared down at his book, picking at the worn cover. “We found this guy in the woods yesterday evening. Maybe we saw wings, maybe we didn’t.” He looked a little unsure as he spoke. Dean thought that neither of them could deny what they saw. “Maybe they’re in this together, him and Richie.”

Dean touched his chest, the place where he thought he could feel Castiel, if he tried. The warm weight just under his ribs was the real proof, he thought, and he could feel the pull from that place when they were close. The glimpses of another life where they were companions could have been dreams, but he couldn’t deny that it felt like something that connected him to Cas had been buried in his chest and the closer they were, the stronger the pull.

“I don’t think they faked that,” Dean said, trying to figure a way to explain how he felt. “I have this sense about him. And I don’t think we have another choice. Whatever that was today, it wasn’t Richie. You know Richie.” Sam didn’t look convinced, but he grudgingly nodded when Dean stared at him. “Richie wouldn’t march you into the forest with a knife at your back.”

Sam succeeded in tearing off the small corner. He stared at the piece of paper between his fingers for a moment, frowning, before he flicked it toward the fire. “Yeah, I guess. It wasn’t great.” He heaved a sigh. “I hope they let me make up my assignments.”

Dean shook his head. “Plead family emergency.” His smirk was wide. “I’ll even write you a note, if you want.”

Sam snorted but didn’t say anything else, just stared at the fire and rubbed his fingers along the binding of his book.

....

They sat until the fire died down into a smoldering pile of red hot ash and charred wood bits. With his book still unopened, Sam went inside and curled up on his cot. Dean sat on his and cleaned his rifle until Sam’s breathing evened out. Once he was sure Sam was asleep, he stepped out onto the back porch. It was larger than the front and a rail contained the space. He didn’t expect to see giant black wings when he stepped out, moonlight highlighting their glossy darkness as Castiel stood with his back toward Dean. As he watched, one wing curved awkwardly around Cas, who stretched upward, shirtless. With one hand, Cas clutched the long bone that stretched between his shoulder and the first wing joint. With his other hand, he reached for a fist-sized raw spot surrounded by blood-caked feathers. The place that Dean was beginning to think of as the bond was strangely withdrawn.

“Uh, everything okay over there?” Dean asked. Castiel frowned and drew his wings up against his back. He turned toward Dean, straightening his shoulders as he moved. Cas took a step and the wings were gone, and Dean was left staring at Cas’ shirtless chest. “Can I help you out with anything?” He knew Sam would have snickered at the double entendre, but Cas didn’t blink.

“I may require your assistance, Dean,” Cas spoke carefully, mouth awkward around the word ‘assistance’ as if saying it was distasteful.

“You need my help?” Dean repeated and gestured toward Cas, toward the space behind him, where he’d last seen the wings. “With that?”

“I can’t reach my injury to tend to it and I am not healing as I would normally. If I hadn’t been injured, we would be able to move much faster. This won’t shorten our journey, unfortunately, but it may provide me some relief.” He shifted and Dean could somehow sense the uneasiness that radiated from him.

“You’ve been hiding an injury this entire time? We could have taken care of this earlier,” Dean chided. “No point in keeping secrets in the woods. Secrets get you killed out here.” He’d learned that inadvertently when he’d hidden a cough from his dad while hunting in the middle of winter. The cough turned into pneumonia that had nearly killed Dean. “I’ll grab my first aid kit from inside.”

With the extensive kit in one hand and a kerosene lantern in the other, Dean returned to the back porch. Castiel was standing in the same spot, watching the forest. He looked solemn, shoulders straight, gaze locked on something that Dean couldn't see. He stood in the confines of a human body, but even if Dean hadn't seen with his own eyes that Cas wasn't quite human, he thought Cas stood too distinctly for one, carried himself with such command that he would never fit in.

“Show me this wound you need fixed up," Dean said as he walked up to Cas. He placed the first aid kit and the lantern on the porch rail, slotting the light so that it fell on Cas’ back.

Cas looked away. His brow furrowed as he seemed to concentrate, his jaw set in a hard line and his eyes squeezed shut. Dean only had a moment to wonder at the extent of Cas’ injury when black wings stretched between them. The right wing was held stiffly, closer to Castiel’s body than the left, which arched up and across the width of the porch. Dean moved closer to examine the wing that he’d seen Castiel grappling with when he stepped outside. He saw the gunshot wound right away, raw and bloody. Gingerly he touched the upper curve of the wing and smoothed his fingers down the feathered ridge.

Castiel made a pained noise as Dean’s fingers slid over the limb, catching on tattered feathers. Dean gently moved a few blood-caked feathers to expose the gunshot wound. The bullet should have left a neat, quarter size wound, with the slug residing within. Instead, it looked like the bullet shattered just before impact, leaving an oozing, raw patch with no clear bullet path. The skin surrounding the wound was hot to the touch and angry, red lines jutted outward from the wound, as if it were already infected.

After studying the wound for a moment, he spoke. “There is no clear path, I’ll have to feel for the bullet so I can cut it out. Without gloves or running water, I don’t want to touch the gunshot with my hands.” His tone was apologetic. “We don’t have anything for pain, but I do have a strap of leather.”

“No leather. Just hurry,” Castiel responded and twisted his head to the side, closing his eyes. Dean crouched next to the first aid kit and picked through it, looking for a paring knife and tweezers. He was adept with both, having worked out plenty of bullets while gutting and skinning carcasses. 

He found tweezers, the small paring knife, gauze, bandages, and disinfectant wipes. The small bottle of whiskey that resided in the kit was an afterthought. Dean ran the sharp edges of the blade and tweezers through the flame on his lighter before he swiped them with a wipe.

Cas' wing grew taut beneath his fingers as he searched for the bullet. Dean had patched up Sam so many times that the quiet words, "easy, easy," fell from his lips before he realized he was speaking. "Not much longer."

Castiel gasped when the blade struck the hard projectile, and tensed. Dean moved the blade to the side and pushed the tweezers in alongside the knife. The once-round slug had flattened and warped upon impact, and it took three tries before Dean’s grasp was firm enough to pull the lump out of Castiel’s wing completely. Wings held very stiffly, his shoulders set but trembling, Castiel said nothing as Dean murmured, "that's it," and drew the slug out.

“Got it,” Dean said and dropped the distorted bullet onto the porch, relieved to see it was intact. Fresh blood began to ooze from the wound and he pressed thick gauze against it, to staunch the blood flow as much as possible. When the gauze didn't immediately turn red, he reached for the pint of whiskey.

"This is going to hurt," he warned. Castiel said nothing and Dean pulled the gauze away. He took a deep breath and tilted the open bottle above Cas’ wing.

To be fair, Castiel didn't move or make any noise when the alcohol ran over his wound. But the place within Dean's chest that had been quiet exploded in agony, taking his breath. Glass shattered on the porch between them, the liquor drenching their shoes. Sympathy pangs of white hot pain radiated outward from the bond and through his chest.

Despite the slight tremor that mirrored the ache in his chest, Dean applied fresh gauze and taped a bandage down. He straightened the disturbed feathers surrounding the bandage and gently threaded his fingers through them as dried blood flaked off and drifted to the porch below.

The ache faded as he touched the feathers, the bond beginning to feel strange in his chest. Whereas the pain had radiated outward, now it was growing tight and withdrawn again, as if Castiel were purposely pulling away from him. He continued to straighten the askew feathers, moving up to the joint at the peak of his wing, down the edge of the wing, inward, until his fingers were skimming over the thick, firm muscles where the flight bones joined Castiel’s back, just between his shoulder blades.

The wing trembled, the movement carried down the entire length of the wing, and the bond responded with a rousing heat, completely different than the previous flare of pain. When Dean shifted he realized that he was affected by the touch just as strongly as the bond. His cheeks flushed with warmth, he was grateful for the darkness. His jeans were tight and he wasn’t sure how he felt about his reactions, about how easy it was to stand near Cas, to touch him, to squeeze his shoulder or brush against his arm when they walked together. The gestures of camaraderie were as natural as joking with Sam, and for a moment his hands stilled in the feathers and he thought about the fragments of memories with Cas, happy and smiling, worried, angry and snarling. Whatever it was between them felt vast and ancient, like their friendship. Only when the memories began to fade did Dean realize they weren’t his memories, but shifting bits of dream memories, of someone else’s life. 

“That’ll do,” Castiel said abruptly as he drew away and pulled his wings close to his back, where they vanished from sight just before Castiel’s trench coat and shirt reappeared on him. “Now that the bullet has been removed, the healing process should speed up.” His expression was curious when he turned and openly examined Dean. His gaze roved over Dean’s face as if trying to read something there, an answer to a question that hadn’t been asked. “Thank you.”

Dean shrugged off the thanks and cleaned the tweezers and knife. He put everything back in the first aid kit and kicked the scattered glass off the porch before he looked up to find Castiel standing in the same spot, still watching him. When their eyes met, the weight in his chest reached out, like tendrils snaking through his body, searching for something. Castiel looked away first, breaking the connection.

It was Dean’s turn to continue to look at Castiel, conscious of his reaction and how closely they stood. Now that he looked for it, he could see proof of the existence of Castiel’s’ wings. It was in the way Castiel carried himself and how he moved, the set of his shoulders, as if he compensated for their weight constantly. He reached out without thinking, and his fingers passed through air above Cas’ shoulder with zero resistance. Though they might be incorporeal, Dean knew they existed.

Castiel stepped slightly out of Dean’s reach and the bond fell silent between them, Castiel pulling away again.

“How much faster?” Dean asked. He couldn’t see much between the lantern and the moonlight, but they highlighted Cas’ features in stark shadows and light. Standing there, Dean imagined he could still see the afterimage of wings, drawn in against Castiel. “You said we’d move faster without your injury.”

“Instantly. My wings allow me to move between locations, dimensions, Heaven and Earth, faster than the blink of an eye. I have access to many different wavelengths and dimensions that you can’t see.” He looked back toward the forest, and Dean wondered what Cas could see that he couldn't.

"So, you're grounded without them?" he asked, and thought of Cas stumbling toward not-Richie. "Powerless, too?"

"Not entirely, but the injury has been detrimental to my abilities. My vessel would have healed itself, had it been injured. My wings are a manifestation of my holy grace, the equivalent of your soul. It's not just the physical wing that was injured, but my essence, too. The bullet caused enough damage, and Anarazel aggravated the injury.” Cas grimaced and turned back toward Dean. “Even with the projectile removed, it will take days to heal. Faster than before, but still time consuming. The sooner we arrive at the lake, the better.”

As Cas spoke, Dean reached out in an attempt to locate Castiel's wings in the empty air. Now that he'd seen them, he was curious, and he wondered if they ceased to exist physically when they were invisible, or if they were hidden from sight. He couldn't shake the brief spike of arousal he'd felt when he touched them, the way the bond had responded eagerly.

Cas shook his head and took another deliberate step away from Dean.

"The bond you feel isn't ours," he cautioned, as if he could sense Dean's thoughts.

Dean stepped toward Castiel. "Why does that matter, if it affects you the same way?"

Castiel only shook his head and repeated, "The bond is not ours, Dean. It will fade when the portal is closed. While you are a human with one lifetime to explore such experiences, I am an angel of the Lord with an eternity of devotion awaiting me. I would do well without such distractions." Expression drawn and shuttered, Castiel gave Dean one last look before he walked away, off the porch and into the darkness.

Dean stared after him. Though the bond might not be theirs technically, it was reacting to them. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from it, or from Castiel, but he wasn’t opposed to enjoying the experience while it lasted. Most of his relationships were short-lived, so the fact that it was only temporary was of little concern.

Castiel had drawn his boundary and Dean respected his decision. Instead of reading into why he was oddly disappointed, considering the situation was one he wouldn't have sought (a connection with another man? _really?_ ), he squashed his wandering thoughts, pushed everything away, and went to bed.

....


	4. Part 4

### 

The morning dawned white, and the mountain was covered with thick, dense fog that left little visibility. After a breakfast of strong, black camp coffee, Sam cleared out the cabin while Dean scattered the ashes from the fire ring, making sure no smoldering embers remained. Dean double-checked his truck and the cabin, making sure the doors were shut tight. With everything locked up and Castiel at the lead, the three started into the misty forest behind the cabin.

“This lake resides deep within the forest, miles from any humankind. The black bears have protected it from outsiders since the Indians inhabited this land. The griffin would naturally take a nest near the lake, and the waters of the lake will speed up my healing process.” Castiel set a brisk pace and spoke to them over his shoulder. Dean had to hike fast to keep up and listen.

“And we can see this griffin?” Dean asked, scanning the ground with each step. There was no discernible path, just more space between the trees, and he watched for protruding roots as he walked over the uneven ground. “It lives in these woods, completely visible?”

“Yes. The demon cannot locate the griffin, but anyone who is pure of soul or grace can see her. Griffins are blessed, pure creatures.” 

“Like unicorns,” Sam piped up from beside Dean. He shrugged when Dean turned to give him a ‘wtf, man?’ expression. “They symbolize purity.”

“Exactly,” Castiel said.

They lapsed into silence as they focused on the journey, the elevation ever-changing as they trekked through the mountains. They ducked between trees and beneath low lying branches, scouting around rock outcroppings, dropping down steep hillsides. As the sun rose in the sky, the mist dissipated, leaving them with no illusion to the miles of forested wilderness that stretched out in all directions.

The day grew warm, gnats and flies circling their faces when they followed a dried-up creek bed. Dean swatted at the tiny bugs that buzzed against his skin, blinking them away when they flew into his eyes. Castiel sustained a steady pace, walking without tiring, while Dean and Sam struggled to keep up after a few miles. Dean shook his head at Sam when they found themselves struggling to match an unwavering pace. Castiel navigated over and through obstacles with no apparent discomfort. Dean swiped spider webs from his face, stumbled over loose stones, and once he and Sam both crawled over a large fallen tree. It was covered with moss and mold, and several large, white mushrooms had grown from the broken, splintered trunk, but crawling over the wide trunk was preferable to fighting through the bramble patches that surrounded it. 

Occasionally a bird would take flight a few yards away, or a chipmunk would skitter up a nearby tree. Sam pointed to a young buck that was framed by a thicket of rhododendron, too far away to accurately sight. Dean’s trigger finger itched, despite having no way to carry or preserve game.

They hiked for several hours, snacking on granola bars and trail mix to keep up their energy, before Dean forced a stop for lunch. His body ached in places he had forgotten existed, being the first time he’d hiked at such a fast pace, for a sustained amount of time, in years. He’d often spent up to twelve hours in the woods hunting, but most of that time was spent crouched in wait, hiding in a tree stand, only taking to the ground to follow a blood trail to a wounded animal.

He paced slowly, giving his body time to cool down before he sat for a few moments. Sam and Castiel remained standing, Sam leaning against a tree for support as he stretched, while Castiel stood next to Dean and stared out into the forest. His unblinking stare was unnerving, and Dean imagined that he was looking for something that only he could see.

Lunch was a quiet affair of peanut butter sandwiches for the quick protein and carbs, and water from the filtered water bottles that Sam carried in his pack. All remnants went back into their packs under Sam’s watchful gaze, careful not to leave any more evidence of their journey than necessary.

The sun had begun its descent toward the western horizon when Dean spotted the bear. A few yards away, through the trees to their left, stood a young black bear. All shiny black fur, save for a light brown muzzle, the bear stood on its hind legs and whiffed the air curiously, peering toward them.

The shot went off before Dean realized he’d drawn and sighted, and stupidly it was the pistol. His distance from the bear prevented the shot from doing much more than stinging its hide, and the bear roared fiercely in response. Dean mouthed “oh, shit,” as the bear dropped to all fours. Dean turned and ran. 

He could hear the bear crashing after him and Dean grabbed Sam’s arm as he passed. “Fucking _run_ , Sam!” snapped Dean. Sam did. Castiel didn’t.

When Dean realized the bear wasn’t immediately behind him, he slowed enough to glance over his shoulder and catch sight of Castiel waiting directly in the bear's path, two fingers raised in front of him. Sam stopped next to Dean and they both watched as the bear approached Castiel, slowing before it stood on its hind legs again, breathing in Cas' scent with flared nostrils. Castiel pressed both fingers between the bear’s eyes and the bear slumped to the ground.

Castiel glanced over and met Dean’s stare. “They protect the lake,” he said by way of explanation. “I won’t kill them unless necessary.”

He didn’t explain that they would continue to run into bears, more and more frequently as they moved closer to the lake. The finger trick worked for each of the next three encounters, and Castiel managed to knock out two large cubs at once. They were chasing each other through the trees, playing tag as they scampered up hills and sprawled beneath bushes, until they spotted Sam and decided he looked more interesting.

“Well,” Dean said as he stared down at the young bears, “I suggest we move before mama bear wonders what happened to her babies.” He smirked at Cas and Sam’s matching disgruntled expressions. “Exactly. Let’s move.” Cas gave him a sharp nod before he turned and began to walk again.

Sam heaved a sigh and followed. He glared at the ground as he walked next to Dean. Dean imagined that he would rather be at home, getting ready for school, but the possibility of kidnapping or possession, no matter how lurid it sounded, was a risk Dean didn’t want to take.

Miles into their journey, the terrain began to shift from sloping, rolling forest floors to limestone canyons and cliff walls that dropped hundreds of feet into a gorge of sorts. It was too dark to see what was at the bottom, but Dean guessed it was a river or large creek from the distant-but-steady sound of rushing water. They stopped to make camp as the sun dropped completely below the horizon, in a small clearing with a limestone bluff that rose several hundred feet into the air behind them, while trees surrounded them on all other sides.

“No fire here,” Castiel said. No one questioned why. With humanoid predators after them, it would be ridiculous to draw attention to themselves with bright flames at night.

“We gonna take turns watching out?” Dean asked after a dinner of peanut butter and dried fruit.. Sam looked tired, his face drawn and his arms crossed over his legs. Dean could feel the claws of his own exhaustion digging into the edges of his mind, but he would take the first shift just to get it over.

“I do not require sleep,” Castiel said as he looked at Dean. While Castiel’s face was lined with long shadows that made him look ancient and solemn, Dean couldn’t see any traces of the weariness that was clear on Sam’s face. “Both of you should rest as much as possible. We need to make more time tomorrow.”

Dean kicked the biggest rocks away from the spot he was claiming. He buttoned his jacket completely and turned up his collar. A year or two had passed since he’d camped on the ground, but Dean didn’t mind. He settled down on his back, arms crossed behind his head, and closed his eyes. Even if he didn’t sleep, he knew he would rest as he laid there and listened to the sound of the forest at night. The chirping crickets, low belches of frogs, and occasional hoot from a low-flying owl were nature’s lullaby, and they worked on Dean as his breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed. With Castiel standing watch, he slept.

....

_Dean was drunk on a thick haze of arousal, lost to the sensation of warm lips and tongue against his neck. He couldn't remember the last time he'd surrendered so freely to another's ministrations, or been so far gone from someone nibbling and sucking on his jawline that he bucked up against them while a groan was wrenched from his throat._

_Lust overrode all over thought and he didn't question his recognition of the messy head of black hair that greeted him when the other pulled back, nor the familiar, intense gaze that drifted down his body. Cas slid his hands down Dean's bare chest, and Dean noticed that Cas' coat was gone, his white shirt partially unbuttoned, navy tie hanging around his neck, and he looked as ravished as Dean felt. Dean leaned forward and grasped the back of Cas' head, fingers clutching at his skull as he pressed their lips together, his teeth catching on Castiel's bottom lip when he moved to pull away._

_The bond flared hot in his chest, and it was the first time he'd felt it longing for what he imagined as completion, surrender. The ache grew until it physically hurt, even as he arched his hips and ground up against Castiel's cheap, polyester slacks, and it felt like he would never be close enough to satisfy the yearning._

_"If this is what it feels like for us," Dean gasped against Cas' lips, licking and suckling as Cas' fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans, the touch teasing his abdomen, "what about them?"_

_"What?" Castiel pulled back enough that Dean could see his swollen red lips and the trail of bite marks down the left side of Cas' neck. His eyebrows were drawn in confusion over his heated gaze._

_"If this is an echo of their bond, how does it feel for our alternate selves?" Dean answered, his thoughts growing clearer as he watched Castiel's expression grow shuttered._

_"Torturous," Castiel said lowly, and the word felt like ice water dripped down Dean's spine, sobering him. He swallowed and searched Castiel's expression for an explanation, his lips parting as he began to ask why--_

Dean woke on the cold, hard ground, jeans tight with a straining erection. He touched his mouth, briefly, where he thought he could feel the burn of someone else's stubble against his skin. He breathed slowly in an attempt to settle his pulse and redistribute his blood flow before he shot a quick look around the clearing to confirm Sam's proximity. Castiel stood several yards away, facing the forest. The bond twinged, and his face flushed as he remembered the heat and friction from his dream.

Dean wasn’t sure whether he hoped Castiel was actively involved in that dream or not. The details began to slip away from him as his adrenaline settled and his heartbeat slowed. Exhaustion crept over him just as quickly as he'd awakened, and the racy dream slipped away with his consciousness when he lay on the hard ground and closed his eyes.

This time when he slept, he didn’t dream.

....

The chill of the dew laden morning woke Dean before Castiel could. After a long stretch to shake off the cold and get blood flowing through his limbs again, Dean nudged Sam awake and moved to start a small fire before they set off.

“Don’t,” a clipped tone spoke from his side. Castiel stood next to him. Dean felt his face heat as bits of the dream began to surface in his memory. He squashed them and followed Castiel’s gaze to the tree line. “Not worth the attention. He’s near.”

With a shrug, Dean kicked at the sole of Sam’s boot. “Come on, let’s clean up our tracks.” They hadn’t left any obvious signs of their presence, but Castiel pointed out broken branches, scuffles in the dirt, and mounds of leaves they’d kicked aside to sleep. It was good practice, Dean thought grudgingly, a good habit, just in case.

_Just in case._ He remembered the way Castiel’s voice dropped when he spoke the demon’s name, as if he worried the demon could overhear him if he spoke too loudly. Unease prickled along his shoulder blades, across the back of his neck. The tiny hairs there stood up.

“Do you -?” he started to ask and Sam cut him off with a muttered, “yeah,” closing the book as he turned to scan the trees around them. Dean could read the discomfort in his expression and knew that was how he looked as he moved, jerky and stiff with the weight of someone else’s gaze on him.

“Cas?” Dean spoke quietly as he looked for anything that could explain why he felt like cornered prey. He thought of the longing within him, how the bond felt curled up in his chest, and gave it an experimental tug with his mind. Cas, he tried to think urgently at the angel.

He heard the slight flutter of wings and Castiel was standing in front of him, expression concerned. “What’s happening?”

Dean’s mouth went dry. Cas was so close, studying him intently... all other thoughts disappeared as his body reacted. He swallowed.

“Something feels off,” Sam said pointedly. “Like we’re being watched.”

Castiel’s focus withdrew from Dean as he appeared to tune into something Dean couldn’t see. Dean licked his dry tongue across even drier lips, the bond warmly responding to Cas’ closeness.

The look Castiel gave Dean was unreadable when he turned back. The bond went cold when Castiel turned away, looking all around them. “He’s near,” he repeated as he appeared to search for something in the distance. “Time to move.”

Dean had started for the trees when Castiel grabbed his arm, and he was pulled off balance as Cas then lunged for Sam’s arm. The sky above them darkened suddenly, clouds funnelling as heavy, cold raindrops began to fall. A spear of lightning could be seen in the distance, forking toward the trees. The sound of heavy wings beating filled their ears. Dean blinked and he stood at the edge of a wide, rolling river. Toward the middle of the river, water rushed through tight channels created by haphazardly strewn boulders, churning and frothing into white-capped rapids. The water dropped away from the boulders and rushed into river-wide pools, the current slowing and forming quiet eddies along the banks.

Castiel dropped to his knees and panted, back bowed as he curled forward. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

“What’s happening?” Dean asked as he crouched next to Cas, ready to reach out and stabilize him if necessary. “Is the demon going to follow us here?”

“Possibly,” Castiel replied evenly after he took a few deep breaths. He looked up at the sky and his head tilted to the side, as if he were listening to something that they couldn’t hear.

“What’s the plan?” Dean asked, ignoring the fact that Castiel wasn’t paying any attention to him. “What next? How do we defend ourselves against a demon?”

“I defend you against the demon,” Castiel corrected absently. Apparently whatever he was listening for wasn’t coming through, because he frowned as he looked at Sam and Dean. “I don’t want to lead Anarazel to the cave or the lake. I didn’t realize he’d be able to find us so quickly. I severely underestimated his abilities.”

“Great, so what do we do?” Dean tried again, tone sarcastic. Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean ignored him. It was a classic big brother ability. “While you’re busy with the demon, and all.”

Like before, the sky grew dark and the wind picked up around them, sending leaves spinning in the air. Castiel stood, slowly, arms heavy at his sides. Dean caught the glint of sharp silver in Castiel’s right hand, a dagger that had slid neatly into his palm from his inner sleeve. The angel set his shoulders, thrust his chin up, and pulled himself together to face whatever was going to appear before him. He took a few steps forward, away from them, before he turned back and looked at the brothers. His eyes were dark and fathomless when he spoke. 

“Stay back,” he intoned, voice like gravel underfoot, “and if I begin to glow, _close your eyes._ ” Castiel turned his back toward Sam and Dean, clearly banishing them from his immediate concern.

Dean felt frozen but when Sam tugged on his sleeve, he turned automatically and followed Sam into the forest.

Several feet into the tree line, Dean stopped. “I have to stay,” he told Sam. The bond was silent, still cold from Castiel’s withdraw, but that didn’t stop Dean from walking back to the edge of the forest where he could watch Castiel and push his own thoughts of strength through the bond, offering what little support he could.

From the ferocious sky came the black cloud of smoke that had been regurgitated out of Richie’s mouth. It condensed into a shifting, moving, human-shape in front of Castiel, who stabbed his blade into the demon being.

Dean could hear Sam’s footsteps as he walked closer, but he was focused on the fight, Castiel and the figure lashing at each other and then retreating, a weave-bob-strike dance, each landing small blows and deflecting larger ones. Castiel hit the ground and the darkness consumed the space behind him, where Dean knew wings existed; Castiel started glowing, his entire body brightening, and the demonic taint whipped back and howled, the high-pitched shriek piercing through Dean’s skull. The sound left him momentarily paralyzed from blinding pain, and deaf from a loud ringing in his ears.

Slowly, Cas began to circle as they fought, one careful footstep after the other, until he was facing Dean and Sam. It was far from a retreat, but Dean could see Castiel attempting to mouth something from across the clearing, even as his attention was locked on the demon and their fight.

It took Dean several long moments watching Castiel’s mouth form the word before he understood that it was ‘Colt.’ Before Castiel could repeat the word, the safety was clicked off and hammer cocked. His eyes narrowed on the black cloud as he aimed the revolver. Castiel made a feint to one side, and then disappeared. Dean pulled the trigger just before Castiel appeared next to him, stumbling into Dean’s side. The black cloud dissipated before the bullet could strike it, curling up and out of the clearing. Before Dean could begin to figure that out, Castiel caught his attention as he tried to stand. He favored his entire left side, the shoulder limp, arm nearly useless. Though Dean couldn’t find a dislocation or any other visible form of injury, he made Sam check. Sam shook his head, unable to find it, either.

“We have to go the rest of the way on foot,” Castiel gasped, his skin pale and wan. “He will not hesitate to attack, but he underestimated us. I don’t think he will make that mistake again.” He grimaced as Dean began to object and held one hand up. His voice held a note of finality and left no room for arguments. “ _Now,_ Dean. Heaven will permanently shut the portal between realities when we’ve recovered the eggs, but not until they have acquired the griffin's eggs. There’s no point in banishing him until then. He’s strong enough to shift between the different realities while it is open.”

Dean couldn’t argue. He didn’t have a reason to protest, other than wanting to assess Castiel’s injury, but Cas straightened and forced his grimace in a flat, blank expression as he pulled his shoulder back and took a few shaky steps forward.

“How far?” Dean asked. He fell into step behind Castiel as they slowly began to work their way into the forest, away from the river.

“One, maybe two miles. I moved us closer. The worst will be the hike to the summit of the mountain.”

“Did the demon know we were close?” Dean didn’t want to know the answer, but he needed to hear it. If it was possible that the demon could find the eggs before they did, it might not mean much for his own reality, but he had found comfort in the constant warmth of the bond. 

“Unlikely,” Castiel said, “which is why he’s hunting us. He won’t kill us if he manages to capture us. He’s going to make us lead him to the griffin and her eggs.”

The hiking was soon too strenuous to talk, requiring full concentration to scale limestone boulders, follow narrow deer paths up steep, treeless hillsides, sliding and falling only to pick themselves back up and continue onward and upward. The only sounds they could hear were their own loud, ragged explosions of breath, and their own boots and fingers scrabbling against stone, bark and soft earth as they continued to advance upward.

“This lake better appear soon,” Dean grunted at one point, the solid weight of his backpack throwing off his center of gravity as he attempted to scale a particularly steep section of hillside for the second time. He considered chucking the backpack but there were too many reasons not to do it. Rationally, he knew that he might need the first aid kit or the deer jerky he’d been nibbling on throughout the day.

“Not much farther,” Castiel said tersely as he began to clamber over the top of the hill. Dean watched the back of his head for a moment, wondering if how the angel experienced the ill effects of being human. Even as he favored his arm, Cas pushed forward with his unyielding pace. “We must continue if we are to make it there.”

“Quit reading my mind,” Dean muttered, looking off to the side as he attempted to scale the hillside again, instead of staring after Castiel.

‘Not much’ felt like a year in hell when every muscle screamed with exhaustion as he moved, but Dean had no other choice than to push through. They hiked up the hill, recovering from slips and slides as they went, constantly moving, pushing, up, up. He could hear Sam behind him, breathing ragged, also climbing and falling, and Dean knew he had to keep going no matter what. If he stopped, then Sam stopped. He had to keep going to keep Sam safe.

Lost in thought, focused so completely on his forward momentum, Dean didn't immediately notice how the ground began to level off into gently sloping hills. They followed a tiny, winding game path between the trees, but they were walking upright. Caught up in how good it felt to move freely despite still-protesting muscles, Dean almost ran into Castiel, who had stopped in front of him with his hand pointing forward.

“There,” Castiel intoned. Dean saw sunlight glinting off bright blue water just beyond the trees, blinding gold flashes that made Dean wince and shield his eyes with one hand so he could look toward the setting sun without being blinded. Sam paused next to him and when Dean glanced over he was staring at the water beneath the visor of his palm. 

With a quick flutter of wing beats, Castiel was gone. Dean took off, but Castiel was walking into the lake, water up to his knees, before Dean broke the tree line and dashed down to the muddy bank of the lake.

“Hey!” Dean called after Cas. Cas held up one hand but kept walking forward. With a frustrated growl, Dean walked up to the water’s edge and stared after him as the water covered Castiel’s shoulders. Without warning, Castiel slipped beneath the water. Bubbles exploded on the surface of the lake, several big ones and thousands of tiny ones, and Dean stared at the spot where Castiel disappeared as the bubbles dissipated, counting to himself.

Even with the knowledge that Castiel was an angel and probably didn’t need oxygen to survive, as the physical body was only a vessel to him, didn’t stop Dean from beginning to shift as his counting neared fifty seconds. He was trying to decide how long he was going to make himself wait before he dove in when Castiel broke the surface of the placid lake, drenched and gasping.

His eyes were closed, face toward the sky, and his trench coat floated around him like a muddied halo. Dean couldn’t stop staring at the expression of pure rapture and bliss on Castiel’s face, how open he looked, how happy. The bond ached in warning and Dean forced his eyes away, dragging his gaze over to Sam, who was watching Dean with a knowing smirk, his eyes twinkling.

“You’re transparent,” Sam said. He was merciful, at least. With all the grief Dean gave him over his crush on Sarah, Sam could have drawn it out.

“Shut it, Sam,” he replied, a warning that sounded like a plea. It’s not the time, is what he wanted to say, but Sam would latch onto something like that and turn it into a conversation, with feelings. No thanks, he’d pass.

“He looks at you the same way,” Sam pointed out. He held Dean’s gaze as Dean gritted his teeth, not ready to explain the bond to his brother.

“You don’t understand, Sam,” Dean said, and his voice carried a note of warning. He didn’t intend to explain unless it was absolutely necessary. It was his, the thing that had curled up in his chest and carved out a warm spot between his lungs, close to his beating heart. It had barely been two days and he was used to the weight in his chest, filling a space he’d never realized was empty, and he was resolutely not thinking about how it was going to feel when it was gone. If there was one thing Dean understood, it was how to push his feelings away. His life had given him plenty of practice.

Sam’s merry expression turned dark and he glared at Dean before muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “If you’re determined to be unhappy, I’m not going to argue.” He turned on his heel and stalked off. Dean couldn’t help but think that happiness may have been his goal once, too. Sixteen was still young.

When Dean looked back at the lake, Castiel was stepping onto the shore, completely dry. He looked up and their eyes met.

“My wing is healed,” Castiel said. His shoulders twitched as he stretched out his injured arm, and it looked like full use of the limb was restored. Dean imagined Cas’ wings flaring as Castiel stretched upward, and then flexing and settling tightly against Cas’ back as he dropped his arms, and started walking toward Dean. “We can complete the task now.”

Sam was standing just inside the tree line, his back toward them and the lake, leaning casually against a tree. There was something about his posture that struck Dean as odd before Castiel growled, “Dean,” with a note of warning in his voice. The wide smirk and narrow, cold eyes that peered out from Sam’s face when he turned toward them were not his brother’s expression. Dean felt something snap within him, anger flooding his thoughts. As much as he wanted to attack the monster in his brother's body, he didn't know how to inflict pain without hurting his brother, too.

“No possession protection?” The-thing-that-looked-like-Sam tutted at Castiel, stepping forward slowly, purposefully. “Even I thought you would have been more prepared, angel.”

Castiel looked furious, whether at the demon or himself, Dean couldn’t be sure. “I can force you out of his body,” Castiel said, voice cold.

“Yes, but can you do it without harming the boy? I’m from Hell, angel. I know what makes the Winchesters tick. We all do.” He smirked at Castiel. “And regardless of which reality you are from, the Winchester’s pet angel is just as predictable.”

Castiel swiped his left hand through the air, lifting Sam’s body off the ground. The demon immediately scrabbled with something invisible around his neck, fingers desperately digging at something Dean couldn’t see.

“I am not from your reality,” Castiel snarled, his eyes dark, tightening his fingers as he demonstrated what Dean knew to be the Force hold. Sam’s body sputtered as he choked, unable to draw any air. “And you would do well to remember that I am no one’s pet.” Castiel nearly closed his fist, fingers drawing even closer together.

“Castiel,” Dean said, not bothering to hide the plea in his voice. He stared at his brother and felt his heart pound in his chest, each second dragging by another that Sam wasn’t able to breathe. He didn’t know how he ended up caught between angels and demons, possibly watching his brother die, when the situation was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid when he insisted his brother travel with him. Dean reached for the bond with his mind, sharing his desperation and his concern and his need to keep Sam alive at all cost. _Please. Please, not Sam._

Castiel blinked and opened his fist. Sam’s body collapsed to the ground, where he began to cough weakly. Cas continued to stare, his mouth set in a hard, unrelenting line. “Push me again, demon, and you will die. I’m not concerned with the human’s feelings.” He was still brandishing his demon blade in his right hand as he shifted on his feet. “Are you willing to risk your life?” His fingers tightened on the handle of the blade as the demon climbed back to his feet.

“Are you willing to risk his brother?” The demon countered, voice raspy, with a hand gesture that included Sam’s body. “You know I can cook this suit and wear it, leaving the charred flesh behind when I vacate the premises.” He deliberately winked at Dean. Dean didn’t punch him because he knew he’d be punching Sam, but it took everything within him not to cross the steps between them and lay into the demon the only way he knew how. “I think the older Winchester would do well to learn his place in this reality.”

Castiel's expression was thunderous but he stepped back, finally turning to shoot Dean a dark look as he walked into the trees. Dean looked at his brother to find the demon staring back at him.

"After you, big brother," it practically purred, mock bowing with one arm extended, indicating Dean first. It laughed at him with Sam’s eyes and Sam’s smirk as Dean passed, shoulders tense, following Castiel.

They hiked nearly two hours, Castiel leading as they followed the curve of the mountain ridge beside the lake. He didn’t look back or speak to neither Dean nor the demon wearing Sam's skin. Dean wanted to pester Cas until he figured out if there was a way to remove the demon from Sam’s body, or find out if there was a plan that he could help execute. Mostly he wanted reassurance that his brother was okay, that he wasn’t dead while someone else took charge. Lost in the downward spiral of his thoughts, Dean was surprised when the bond twitched. Castiel was still keeping his strong pace, but Dean could feel the proffered comfort radiating from the bond. Dean focused on the sensation, giving himself over to the emotion and letting it settle his anxieties, however temporarily.

When Cas stopped, Dean didn’t see anything beyond the same stretch of trees he’d been walking in for days, leaf-covered forest floor beneath his feet, and a sloping, boulder-studded hillside as the mountain rose to their left.

“There,” Cas spoke and pointed. Dean followed the line of Cas’ hand halfway up the hill, where the large boulders had a sizeable gap between them. “Let’s go,” Castiel said. Without waiting for a response, he began to hike up the incline that led to the boulders. Wearing a wide, satisfied smile, the demon made a point of following Dean up the hill.

Castiel stood next to the massive limestone while they caught up, examining the thick green moss and white lichen that spread across the stone. Dean didn’t see any signs of the cave until they stepped between the boulders and he felt the first hint of cool air.

The space between the boulders widened as it split into a dark chasm. Dangling tree roots and packed earth brushed over their shoulders as they ducked into the cave, stepping into the constant cool of subterranean air.

The cavern was short, leaving them stooped forward as they walked into the darkness. Castiel conjured a torch into existence, holding the flaming branch out in front of him. It cast a flickering glow on the on the damp stone walls and dirt path beneath their feet. The cavern was wide but low, strewn with stones of all sizes, and the visibility faded into darkness before he could get an idea of the cavern depth. The dirt on the path was packed, but showed marks and scratches, as if sharp talons or claws walked the same path.

“We’ll have to hike into the mountain before we can take the passageway to the cavern where she is incubating the eggs,” Castiel said as he scrutinized the claw marks on the ground, “and hope that the griffin is out seeking food. She'll attack you in defense of her nest.” This part was said to the demon-possessing-Sam. Castiel straightened as much as he could and began to walk deeper into the cave. 

Something inside Dean’s stomach sank, but he knew there was no other choice. Pushing his worries about Sam aside, he focused on taking one careful step after another over loose stone as he followed Castiel into the darkness.

Toward the back of the large cavern were several large fissures in the stone wall, each wide enough to walk through. Castiel studied them for a moment before selecting the furthest from the right, scouting around a few large boulders as he slipped into the tunnel.

This time Anarazel didn’t wait for Dean, instead darting just behind Castiel, ducking under the low ceiling as he used momentum to skim over the boulders, faster than Dean had ever seen Sam move. The flickering glow of the torch moved into the fissure, leaving the darkness to settle uncomfortably around Dean as he followed them into the mountain.

The fissure appeared to be a tall, wide crack in the mountain. In one or two places the path looked like it had once been considerably tighter, impassable in places where the stone had once grown together overhead. Something had clawed and dug at the walls until enough stone had been scraped away that it was easily traversable.

In the confined space, even with the aid of Castiel’s torch, the weight of the earthen darkness pressing in all around them was disconcerting. Dean imagined himself deep within the bowel of the mountain the farther they hiked, all of the potential pounds of pressure in earth and dirt above him. He swallowed.

It felt like they walked for miles, travelling far into the mountain, when in reality the journey could have been as short as a half-mile. Dean’s muscles were already tired from the journey through the forest, and the cave’s irregular path, traversing around unyielding stone, and minimal lighting made the expedition slow-going.

The fissure opened abruptly into another open cavern, this one much larger than the first, with a ceiling that rose far above their heads. They stood on a narrow bluff that dropped away, what could be seen of the steep slope covered with scattered with pebbles. The air was damp, and from somewhere below Dean could hear the sound of trickling water.

“We’re nearly there,” Cas said. He peered over the side of the bluff, into the darkness where the light from his torch couldn’t reach. “We’ll need to descend to take the path. She carved it out of the mountain.” Before Dean had a chance to ask how they were going to get down there, Cas touched his shoulder, and with a flutter of wings, they were standing in a shallow stream at the bottom of the cavern. Dean’s shoes and socks were flooded with ice cold water.

Though he couldn’t see Anarazel, he heard the low chuckle of amusement just before a cascade of rocks splashed into the water all around him. The demon skidded to a stop near them, at the bottom of the incline, having slid down the hill on the soles of his boots. Dean glared at him and Anarazel returned the look with a wink.

“Follow me.” Castiel took off, wet, squelching footsteps marking his trail. Dean followed. He could make out Castiel’s form ahead of him in the light of the torch, walking next to the curved cavern wall, one hand trailing across the rough stone surface. Cas’ hand seemed to disappear into a break in the wall and he made a satisfied noise.

“Here,” Castiel said, walking into the passage he had discovered, turning and holding the lantern high as he inspected the walls. They were lined with rough stone and deep, gouging claw marks, where something had painstakingly dug into the mountain. “This is her path. We’re nearly to the nest.” Dean could hear not-Sam murmur something behind him, tone pleased. With no other choice presenting itself, Dean followed Cas into the dark tunnel, with the demon behind him.

The tunnel ended in a rounded chamber that was a little bigger than Dean’s living room, walls bearing the same deep gouges as the tunnel. A large nest sat in the middle of the room, and Dean could make out a bit of everything in the walls of the nest, from chunks of broken logs, branches bearing brown, dead leaves, an assortment of colored rope, faded cloth, and what looked suspiciously like tufts of cotton or fur. The nest was nearly half of Dean’s height. He stepped closer and in the middle, nestled together, he could see three large, golden eggs.

“There we are... good job, angel,” the demon said, and Dean glanced over to see him pat Castiel absently on the shoulder. He saw the glint of a blade appear in Castiel’s hand as the demon stepped forward, and how Castiel drew back just before he slammed the blade into not-Sam’s shoulder.

Dean felt like he was stuck in place, a horrified, half-gasp of “Sam!” strangled out of him when the blade plunged into his brother’s body.

It looked like a light flickered under Sam’s skin briefly, and Castiel began to speak in a thick, heavy language that sounded stilted and forced to Dean’s ears. When Castiel’s body began to glow with a painfully bright light, Dean turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut. Even with his eyes closed, he knew when the room flared into blazing light because his vision went bright pink as the light shone through the thin skin of his eyelids. The light faded quickly, his sight behind his closed eyes fading to black again. Dean counted to twenty before he opened his eyes.

Castiel was crouched next to Sam, his back toward the tunnel. Dean moved toward, too consumed by the worry for his brother to pay attention to the soft sound that was growing closer, until he looked up at the mouth of the tunnel and realized the sound was heavy claws on packed earth. Something large walked toward them. Dean’s mouth went dry. “Uh, Cas.”

Castiel looked over his shoulder and met Dean’s wide eyes before his gaze slid past and focused on the mouth of the tunnel, catching sight of what Dean saw. Castiel froze.

Standing just inside the room was the griffin. Easily as tall as the largest black bear they had encountered, she carried her white-feathered head high, her wicked, curved beak shining as her front talons dug into the ground. Her feathers stretched down her torso and front legs, her front legs ending in sharp talons that dug into the earth The feathers faded into golden fur on her lower abdomen and beneath her wings, and she crouched with a lion’s coiled power in her hind legs as her tail whipped back and forth. 

Shiny black eyes locked on first Castiel, then Dean. She tilted her head and examined them closely, shiny black eyes locking on Castiel, then Dean, carefully looking them over before she sat down in front of the tunnel, effectively blocking the exit.

Dean was a hunter, first and foremost, but he was amazed by the majesty of the griffin as she sat and watched them, such a strange combination of myth and creature. He might have understood if the demons had been trophy hunters, knowing folks who wouldn’t have hesitated to chance a shot at those bragging rights.

“Kneel,” he heard Castiel hiss, and he reacted automatically, looking down as he dropped to his knees and waiting. He stared at the rock floor and the rush of his own heartbeat was loud in his ears, adrenaline racing through his veins. Several long moments passed before he heard the scrape of claws against the ground. Glancing up from beneath his lashes, Dean saw the griffin down on one knee, bowing in return. 

“We can’t take these away from her, Cas,” Dean said quietly, unable to look away from the griffin. She straightened as he spoke, and caught his eye. They stared at each other for a long moment. “How can we close the portal without giving these to Heaven?”

“Grab them, Dean,” Castiel said under his breath, the words a ghost of a whisper, but Dean heard them as loudly as he could hear his heart pounding and blood rushing through his veins. It wasn’t a question or a request, but an order. The griffin cocked her head and Dean was absurdly reminded of Castiel.

“I’m not leaving without Sam,” he returned.

"Trust me," Castiel hissed. The griffin took a step forward and the bond surged, spurring Dean to move. Dean took a deep breath and dove for the eggs. The griffin screeched, the sharp, piercing sound filling the small chamber. Dean heard movement and saw something bright flare at the edge of his vision just as his arms wrapped around the eggs. He slammed his eyes shut and felt fingertips press against his forehead. Dean heard the flutter of wings and his stomach lurched as the world _shifted._

....

_Fresh, damp air saturated Dean’s senses, and he could feel a light breeze against his skin. Opening his eyes, Dean took in the wide expanse of water bound by thick forest, the sky flawlessly blue above. Standing on the dock, overlooking the wide lake, he remembered dreams of fishing, of conversations with Castiel that he’d forgotten, and the memories that were his but faded beyond his reach. This dream space was safe, comfortable...his._

_He shifted and caught sight of Sam, lying on the dock next to him, with the shoulder of his shirt bloody. Dean carefully placed the eggs in his camp chair and dropped to his knees next to Sam. The blood on the shirt was still damp, but he couldn’t find any wounds beneath the rip in the fabric, only smooth skin sticky with drying blood. He counted the rise and fall of Sam’s chest, timing the breaths until he was satisfied that Sam was stable._

_He picked the eggs up, cradling one in the crook of each arm and awkwardly picking up the third. The chair scraped against the deck as he shifted, manipulating it with his body weight so he could turn toward Sam. Dean settled in the chair, holding the eggs, and waited. Castiel would show eventually, he knew. Idly he rubbed his fingers over the warm, smooth shell of one of the eggs, worrying at one of the dozens of black speckles that dotted the shell. Dean reached for the bond with his mind, thought of Cas, and hoped he was okay._

_Time passed. Sam woke slowly, groaning, holding his head with his hands. “My head,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair. He curled up on his side on the dock. “Hurts.”_

_“What do you remember?” Dean asked._

_“I don’t.” Sam paused as he attempted to blink his eyes open against the bright daylight. He squinted at his brother, rubbed his eyes and then his head. “I don’t know. We were at the lake...” He glanced around, taking in the dock and the large lake, surrounded by pressing forest. “Is this the same lake?”_

_“This is my dream,” Dean said shortly. “I don’t know how you’re here and I don’t know where Cas went.”_

_Sam peered at what Dean was clutching in his arms. “Are those... are those really griffin eggs? Why don’t I remember what happened?”_

_Dean stared at the reflection of sunlight that glinted across the surface of the water, broken up into a thousand tiny sunspots as the water moved. “You were possessed by a demon, Sam. Castiel stabbed you with his dagger. I think it killed the demon.”_

_Dean could feel the weight of Sam staring at him. He finally turned and met his brother’s eyes, the truth visible in his flat expression. It sounded ridiculous. He wouldn’t have believed it, either, and he expected Sam to question him about everything, whether Dean could answer his questions or not. It was Sam’s nature, how he’d been able to excel in school as well as he had._

_Sam broke eye contact first and looked down at the griffin eggs that Dean held. He surprised Dean when he asked, “Do you want me to take one of those?”_

_Dean shook his head, not willing to share his charge. They sat in silence and watched the lake, Sam rubbing his temples, Dean holding the eggs._

_A sharp indrawn breath behind them had both turning, Dean shifting his shoulders forward to cover the eggs as he moved. The bloody mess that stumbled toward them, coughing, was Castiel._

_Dean stood next to Castiel before he realized that he’d moved, still clutching the eggs to his chest. Castiel wobbled as he took small steps, his face covered with bright red blood from a long gash across his forehead. Sam took one of Castiel’s elbows in hand and, as Cas’ knees began to buckle, he squatted so Castiel should use his shoulder for leverage as he lowered him to the dock. Dean inched closer and crouched down, but he didn’t want to risk losing the eggs until he knew that Cas was safe._

_Castiel smiled at both of them, more of a pained grimace than an expression of happiness. “Thank you both. I think I can manage from here,” he rasped, reaching toward each with one hand, fingers ready to touch their foreheads. Dean didn’t recognize the gesture until it was too late and Sam was already gone._

_“Wait!” Dean snapped. Cas hesitated, just long enough for Dean to speak. “What are you going to do with the eggs?” he asked, his arms curled around them possessively._

_“I’m going to return them to the female griffin. She’s here,” Castiel said._

_"Here?" Dean turned toward the lake, puzzlement spreading over his face. "What do you mean, here--" a distant screech cut him off and he turned back and met Castiel’s gaze, caught off guard. "This is a real place?" Dean asked incredulously._

_"In a manner of speaking, yes.” Castiel nodded. "She exists here, in the place created by your dreaming mind. There is plenty of wildlife here to sustain her and her clutch, nearly no humans to stumble upon her." Castiel smiled again. He was proud of his solution, Dean realized, and he wondered if it was the first time Castiel had made his own. "No one can break into this world. For all they can tell, she's dead. Untraceable. "_

_"And if this turns into a bad dream?" Dean had experienced his fair share, usually when he felt his control slipping._

_"A warped version of this dream will be just that: a version. It should have no effect on her true form."_

_It was a lot for Dean to process. He was used to thinking in straight lines of mostly black and white, not overlapping parallels and alternate realities._

_“If Heaven doesn’t get the eggs, who will close the portal?”_

_“Without anyone to channel the spell holding it open, it should close on its own.” It seemed Castiel had an answer for each question. Dean felt his irritation flare._

_"What about me? Do I just go back to life like mythological creatures aren’t running around?" Dean demanded._

_Castiel shifted and looked away, suddenly exuding discomfort. "I could help you forget," he said, and though he sounded earnest, Dean was tempted to punch him. His fingers curled into fists._

_"And the bond?" Dean continued, voice scathing._

_"Should fade when the portal between realities is closed," Castiel replied and looked at Dean. If he heard the faint longing in Dean’s voice, he ignored it. “If it hasn’t already.”_

_The bond was still there. Dean could feel the warm, comfortable place where the bond manifested in his chest. He tried to push his anger at it, to prove his point, but Castiel’s stare didn’t waver as he met Dean’s probing gaze. "Will I see you again?"_

_"No," Castiel said quietly, and he looked down. "Our paths crossing here was more coincidence than fate. It is best if I return to Heaven. There will be no other reason for me to return to Earth."_

_That stung, though Dean smiled grimly despite the brush off. Castiel’s expression was shuttered when he looked back at Dean. Dean returned the stare with a frown. He didn’t verbally accept but he knew he wouldn’t win the fight, and he had no reason to try to keep the eggs from the griffin._

_We'll see, Dean thought at the bond, more of a threat than a promise as Castiel reached for him again. We will see._

....


	5. Part 5

### 

“Dean?”

Dean jolted awake. It took him a moment to realize that he was staring up at his ceiling, lying on his own bed, on top of his rumpled blankets.

“Dean?” He heard someone call, muffled through the walls. His head spun with disorientation but he recognized the voice as Sam’s.

“Yeah!” Dean finally yelled back, pushing himself up and off of his bed. As soon as he stood, his vision faded to static, ears loud with white noise, and for a long second or two he thought he was going to pass out, his feet already stumbling against the carpet. A heartbeat later the world returned in sharp focus and he caught his balance. He was dizzy, but otherwise okay.

He heard Sam say his name again, closer. He pulled his bedroom door open to reveal Sam standing on the other side, reaching for the handle.

“Dean!” Sam’s relief was palpable as he wrapped Dean in a bear-hug that Dean returned tightly. He patted his brother on the back, grateful to see him up and moving, with no apparent side effects of the possession.

“What happened?” Sam asked when he stepped back, and it took Dean a long moment to search his memory and remember.

“Cas,” he said and looked at Sam. “Castiel.”

Sam raised his eyebrows.

“Kitchen,” Dean grunted as he started down the hallway. “I’ll tell you what I remember after I eat something greasy.”

While Dean cooked burgers, he told Sam everything he remembered. When he was finished, Sam asked the question that was pressing on Dean’s mind. “Where is Castiel?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. He _wanted_ to know, wouldn’t mind asking what Castiel was ‘managing’ on his own, maybe even explore some of the tension between them if everything was safe again. The bond was quiet, but he could still feel it just as strongly. “He said he was returning the eggs to the griffin and returning to Heaven.”

“The griffin part actually happened?” Sam asked, pouring himself a glass of milk.

“Since when do we share dreams, Sam?” Dean rolled his eyes at his brother and prodded the cooking patties with the spatula. “Besides, look at your shirt.” The shoulder was still ripped and covered with blood.

Sam pulled the cloth away and poked his finger through the cut. He and Dean were both silent for a few moments. “What now?” Sam asked.

Dean’s stomach rumbled. “Food,” he said.

....

For three days, Dean gave Cas the benefit of the doubt. He worked, looked after Sam, and ignored the quiet bond. He didn’t go out of his way to either push any thoughts toward it or keep them away, and it didn’t fade or disappear. Despite the angel’s absence in his life and a lack of recalled dreams, he thought he would see Cas again. His hope began to dwindle on the third day, replaced by irritation that he’d been wrong. Since Cas seemed resolved to stay away, Dean hatched a plan. He wasn’t sure it would work, wasn’t sure exactly how the angel was affected by the bond. And, yeah, it might have been a little underhanded, but Dean had never been able to sit by idly.

He waited for Sam to leave for school before he retreated to his bedroom, locking the door to be on the safe side. Dean unbuckled his belt and sauntered to his bed, heart beating a bit faster than normal, anticipation building. He was half-hard when he pushed his jeans and boxers down, kicking them off before he laid back against his pillows. He spread his knees and wrapped one hand around his shaft, sighing as he stroked once, twice; his eyes drifted shut, tongue licking between his lips. He thought of the bond briefly, and then skimmed through a few different scenarios featuring himself and Castiel in various compromising positions while he found a steady, comfortable rhythm. His hand moved faster as he thought of Castiel’s mouth, chapped lips slightly parted, and how those lips would feel against his skin; Cas’ hands, curled loosely at his sides, and how they would spread across his chest, trailing down. His stoic expression, and how that would change into desire, eyes dark, lips parted, as Cas responded to Dean’s touches.

The images raced rapid-fire through his mind as Dean stroked, breathing faster, pleasure building. He licked his lips again, imagined he was licking against Cas’ mouth. His hips jerked up as he thrust into his own fist, imagining that it was Castiel’s fist he was fucking, Castiel kissing him as his own tongue slid between his lips, as their cocks rubbed against each other. He could hear Cas' deep voice rumbling his name, feel Cas' fingers on his body, touching, exploring, maybe even pressing into his ass, slick and sure... 

He grew close, so close, so close, and with each stroke of his hand, he shoved his feelings and imagery at the bond. He wanted Castiel to know how he felt, and if that feeling were returned... Dean shuddered, lips parted, and okay, maybe he was a bit voyeuristic, because the thought of Castiel watching him, feeling his arousal through the bond, pushed him closer. He thought of Cas grinding against him, thrusting, biting, pushing in, anything as long as it was contact. He wanted the bond, wanted Castiel; he was comfortable with the weight in his chest, how it had settled beneath his skin. If it was his choice, he would claim it for himself, something that was his and his alone. _His_ bond, with _his_ angel. 

Dean came with a groan, come spilling over his fist, stroking slowly through each aftershock, until the sensitivity overwhelmed him. Hand falling to his side, he sprawled on the bed, his post-orgasmic haze curling around the bond. It thrummed, responding to his ministrations for the first time in days. The bond may not have been his originally, but Dean wanted the tangible thing between himself and Castiel.

There was a soft noise from the doorway. Dean’s eyes flew open and landed on Castiel, who stood against Dean’s locked door and stared openly, face flushed, eyes bright and wide. His lips were parted, and Dean swallowed. Castiel looked over Dean’s naked form, exposed and filthy with his own come, while Dean memorized the lines of Castiel’s trench coat, from shoulders stiff with restrained tension to the clenched fists held at his sides.

Dean realized he was still clutching the bond when their eyes met. Something shifted in Cas’ expression and Dean felt emotion barrel through the bond; the returned longing and the blazing desire from Dean’s bond play, feverish and burning beneath Castiel’s skin. Pure want for something, from someone who had never wanted in his existence.

"You don't know what you're doing," Castiel told him, his voice reckless, broken. Desperate. His eyes didn’t move from Dean's face.

“Stick around, show me,” Dean argued. Cas looked conflicted, his lips parting like he might speak. Instead, he vanished, leaving an empty doorway and a silent bond. With a sigh, Dean dropped his head back against his pillow.

“This isn’t over,” he told the empty room, voice soft and muted with post-coital exhaustion. “I’m not giving up that easily.”

Silence was his answer. He used his discarded t-shirt to wipe himself clean. He made a face at the dirty cloth before he tossed it toward the corner of his room, where a smaller pile of dirty clothes resided. It was early for a nap, but he smashed his pillow comfortably beneath his head and his breathing evened automatically when he shut his eyes. Dean slipped into a light sleep without dreams.

....

Castiel didn’t show up again and Dean’s optimism began to wane as days passed. He didn’t show when Dean’s nightly routine became a slow, languid jerk, centered completely on the bond and thoughts of Castiel. When that didn’t work, he spent a few days in the woods, working off his frustration through the end of his sight.

Garth and Ash showed up one evening at Bobby’s and dragged him out for a game of darts after work. He didn’t know whether they had noticed his absence or Sam had called them, but he wasn’t asking. Into their second game, several drinks down, a group of college guys came in and took up a corner. The group drank beer and took shots, breaking out in raucous laughter. Dean noticed a dark-haired, dark-eyed guy on the fringe that caught his gaze and made a point to keep eye contact from across the room.

When the guy wandered over to the jukebox a couple tables away from the dart board, it took Dean tossing back two shots of tequila before he introduced himself.

“Hey,” he said, offering a half grin as he sidled up to the machine. The guy was flipping through the records but paused to look Dean over, slowly.

“Hey, yourself,” the guy returned with an easy, friendly smile. He gestured toward the machine. “Am I in your way?” His eyes were warm but brown, so far away from the blue that Dean wanted, but he had some soft stubble, a wide smile, and within minutes they were arguing the musical merits of Bob Dylan’s _All Along The Watchtower_ versus Jimi Hendrix’s.

"I'm Aaron," the guy said with a laugh as they were booted from in front of the machine by someone who intended to pick a song. He held out his hand.

"Dean," he returned, shaking the proffered hand firmly, and he smiled.

They moved outside, huddling behind the bar to share a joint that Aaron offered, rolling it with a scrap of paper he found in his car as they continued to argue the merits of classic rock.

“That was awesome,” Dean murmured as he exhaled and passed the smoldering stub back to Aaron, his thoughts comfortably cushioned from reality. The cotton-headed buzz combined with the alcohol heating his veins was a potent combination, giving him distance from his thoughts. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Aaron said, pupils dilated as he watched Dean lean against the brick wall of the pub. “Wanna find somewhere more comfortable to chill?”

“Yeah?” Dean looked Aaron over, his eyes heavily lidded. “And do what?”

Aaron smirked and raised his eyebrows in response to the slow look. “Follow through on our eye magic from earlier?”

Dean had him against the wall before Aaron could react, and Dean could feel the hunger in his expression as he stared Aaron down. He knew what he felt for Castiel through the bond, but this was new to him, the potential to freely explore his attraction to guys. Surprised to find how much his body enjoyed the proximity and the flat chest against his, his lowered inhibitions didn’t mind that they were in a semi-public place as he moved closer. Keeping his eyes on Aaron, Dean shifted until their faces were centimeters apart and he could feel Aaron’s breath against his lips as Aaron exhaled.

Aaron closed the gap and then they were kissing, Aaron flicking his tongue against Dean’s bottom lip. Dean couldn’t help the reflexive jerk of his hips, even as the mostly-silent bond began to grow warm in his chest. The mechanics weren’t different than kissing a girl; it was still just kissing, lips and tongues, but with the brush of stubble against his face. Dean trailed one hand between them, down Aaron’s chest, noting the flat planes, and the bond grew hotter in his chest. He wanted, but it was beginning to feel wrong, and the bond shifted uncomfortably beneath his skin. He tried to ignore the warning.

The discomfort grew the longer they made out, burning painfully, until Dean had to break away. “I can’t,” he gasped, shaking his head and pulling back. “I can’t.”

Aaron’s lips were swollen and parted, pupils blown. Dean could feel Aaron’s gaze on him, even as he looked away. “Can’t...? Or won’t?”

Dean ran a hand through his hair, then down his face. He finally looked back at Aaron. “It’s not you,” he said, the cliche falling flat between them. “I think I have someone out there, but he needed some time...” Dean stepped back. “I’m sorry,” he told Aaron as the bond began to settle, the heat dissipating.

Aaron shrugged and continued to look at Dean. “Hey, man, it could be good. Your loss.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, meeting Aaron’s gaze head on. Something simmered in the air between them. He was interested, but it looked like he would be taking care of that interest by himself. “It really, really is.”

It was only after he’d had a few shots and he was sitting in the front seat of his truck, keys dangling from the ignition, that he allowed himself to feel the anger that welled up inside of him. It wasn’t Castiel directly, he knew, because Cas wasn’t contacting him; Cas wasn't there. The bond hadn’t faded like Cas had said. It blocked him. For the first time since the mess began, he felt anger toward the bond, at getting stuck with something that wasn’t going to have any payoff, and wasn’t reciprocated. Someone that refused to be there because, technically, what he felt wasn’t his, in the sense that he hadn’t earned it in this reality.

His intoxication made it easier to give into his anger as it simmered like the bond had heated, growing until consumed. Dean was pissed, and he found himself outside of his truck, yelling. He stumbled in the loose gravel parking lot, tripping and slurring, shaking his fist at the night sky, at someone who refused to listen. He caused enough of a commotion that someone called his brother, and Sam broke through his red-tinted haze when he came into sight and began to drag Dean back to his truck.

“Dean, come on, man,” and Sam sounded tired as he forced a drunk, ranting Dean into the cab, over to the passenger side, where Dean promptly passed out.

....

_The bond was a lingering reminder of what he couldn’t have, nestled just beneath his ribs._

_He wasn’t aware he was asleep until he stood on the dock, arms crossed, and a familiar presence at his side. Dean didn’t want to look at Cas, didn’t want to see something that he knew wasn’t going to be his._

_“I didn’t intend for this to happen,” Castiel said._

_Dean didn’t speak at first. When he heard the screech in the distance, he knew they'd done the right thing, regardless of how he felt. When he looked over at Cas, his gaze landed on his tie. Dean wasn’t sure what stirred the memory, how Cas had answered him when he’d asked about the bond, but for a moment he stared at Castiel’s navy tie, and thought of his Castiel’s dark green tie. With that brief moment of clarity, Dean felt his tongue sharpen._

_“I asked him how the bond felt to our counterparts, if we were feeling an echo.” Castiel glanced at him, gaze probing. Dean steeled his expression, trying to stay shuttered. He craved the satisfaction for what he was going to say, for what he’d finally figured out. It had been in front of him the entire time, that damn tie that didn’t quite match his Castiel’s dark green tie._

_“Tortuous,” Dean drew the word out. “He said it was torturous.” Castiel’s nostrils flared, fingers tightening into fists at his sides as he looked away. The griffin screeched again, this time closer. “It’s never been tortuous to me,” he continued, glaring openly at Castiel, “and I had to wonder why. Why it would be so awful for you. It’s because you’re keeping it from him. You’re holding it all back, all the pain, all the pleasure, everything. Somehow you severed it from him and you’re keeping it inside yourself. It’s poisoning you.”_

_It looked like Castiel’s shoulders were shaking, but he might have been seeing things. Dean’s fingers itched for his fishing pole, to cast a line, see if he could catch anything and reel it in. Slowly._

_Castiel turned back to Dean, his eyes shuttered, and his expression thunderous. The clouds grew dark and the wind picked up. A leaf whipped out over the lake and Dean watched it skim across the surface before it collided with the surface and slowed._

_“Go home,” he said, staring across the lake._

_He heard Castiel walk over to him and crouch beside his chair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Castiel reach for him, and then felt him touch his cheek. Dean wanted to flinch, pull away sharply, inflict his own pain. Instead, he leaned into the touch, the ache in his chest sharpening, angry and desperate._

_“Don’t come back,” Dean said, eyes closed, voice flat. He could still see the trench coat behind his lids, tousled hair and piercing eyes. The presence, the wings he knew existed, even though he couldn’t see them. “You’re not him. I don’t want the reminder. And when you’re back in your reality, you should think about giving him a choice.” Dean knew what his decision would be, if Castiel had asked for his assistance or if he’d given Dean a chance to help. “If he and I are anything alike, his answer may surprise you.”_

_Castiel spoke with conviction. “Your souls are remarkably similar. Different scars, different experiences, but both are incredibly bright, Dean. In every reality, you are a righteous man.”_

_“Give him a choice.” Dean opened his eyes and looked at Cas, imploring. Castiel stood too close, shifted further into Dean’s personal space, and Dean knew he wasn’t his Castiel, wasn’t a replacement, but that didn’t stop him from leaning into the kiss._

_When Dean pulled back, he said, “Goodbye, Castiel.”_

_Castiel gave him one final, lingering look. “Goodbye, Dean.”_

....

Dean spent the following evening helping out at Bobby’s, tinkering with the Impala when Bobby’s workload was caught up. After a couple hours Bobby chased him off, telling him to go home and look at schools. Dean didn’t argue as he headed toward the sink, washing his hands before he left in his grease-stained clothes, tired and ready for dinner, some television, and bed, in that order. The car ride wasn’t long, but his vision had begun to blur by the time he pulled in his driveway.

Sam was at a friend’s, there were no other cars in his driveway or parked along the street, and Dean didn’t expect any company, so when the knob turned under his hand before he could slide the key into the lock, Dean was caught off-guard. Instincts immediately on full-alert, he grabbed the cement frog Sam had bought for the porch, hefting it in his right hand as he used his left to turn the knob and push the front door open.

The hallway was dark, just as he’d left it, and he could see the dull glow of a nightlight from the open bathroom door down the hall. Dean strained to listen, debating whether he wanted to go back to the truck and grab his rifle before proceeding, when he heard something shift behind him. He swung the frog as he turned, but he was too late; something smashed against the side of his head. Dean’s world exploded in pain as his vision faded to black.

....

Rufus was waiting for Dean when he came to, bound and tied on his couch, head pounding. His eyes burned and his throat was dry. He couldn’t focus very well; Rufus blurred in his sight, splitting into two Rufuses with the same coal black eyes and shark-like smile.

“Is Rufus dead?” He rasped out, squinting against his double vision.

“Been dead,” the thing disguised as Rufus said dismissively, blinking and staring Dean down with Rufus’ dark eyes and wry smirk. “Fair’s fair, considering two of my kin have died here.”

“You don’t belong here,” Dean growled, twisting toward the edge of the couch.

“Let’s not,” the demon cut him off, stepping closer, hand gripping a pistol tightly at his side. “Save the rhetoric for another day; you’ve got something I want. I intend to take it, by force if necessary.” His smile was coldly promising as he held the gun up and cocked the hammer back with his thumb. “Where are the eggs, Winchester?”

“What eggs?” Dean asked, playing dumb.

One finger deliberately wrapped around the trigger as he pointed the gun at Dean’s forehead. He sounded bored when he spoke again. “No matter which universe we’re in, you’re Castiel’s weak spot. He's going to come running when he realizes you’re dead. I'm not going to repeat myself. Where are the eggs, Winchester? You’ve got ten seconds.”

Dean hoped that the reason he could still feel the bond was because it was still active, not just because he’d clung to it.

“Nine.”

He imagined the place where it existed quietly, muted in his chest, and he reached for that with his thoughts.

“Eight.”

He thought of Sam coming home to find him dead, of Sam having to bury him like they’d buried their father, and the thought fuelled his desperation.

“Seven.”

Dean shoved all of his panic toward the place where the bond existed, and thought, _Sam’s not coming home to this!_

“Six.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about--” he tried.

“Five.” The demon ignored him.

Cas! Dean tried to project all of his willpower toward the bond, toward his memories of Cas. _I could use a little help here, man!_

“Four.”

_Where are you?_

“Three.”

_CAS!_

“Two.”

“In my dr--” Dean began to blurt, interrupted by the sound of wings. Rage twisted Rufus’ face, the expression apoplectic, as a bright light began to glow behind him. Black smoke instantly poured from between his lips and out his nostrils, a furor of writhing smoke that spiraled toward Dean. The smoke smothered his face, mouth and eyes, and he could feel the push for possession like hot knives scraping over his skin, but the push met resistance. Unable to possess him, the smoke pulled away from his face--

\--only to be consumed in a blaze of blinding white light. Dean felt his eyes slam shut as they began to burn, and he listened to the howl of rage as the light attacked the demon.

“It’s over,” he heard a familiar voice speak when the room fell silent. Dean hadn’t seen him, but he knew that voice. His eyes flew open and standing over him, staring down, was Castiel, his familiar piercing gaze already settled on Dean’s face.

“I thought you said you took care of them,” Dean said, accusingly, eyes flicking down toward Rufus’ crumpled body on the rug.

“I had it under control,” Castiel said tightly, “until he stopped chasing me today.” He touched the prone form lightly and Rufus vanished.

Dean glared up at Cas and tried to find words to express the bitter emotions he’d felt since the angel vanished on him, the indignation he felt at being abandoned. When he shifted and felt the rope rub against his wrists, he sighed and let most of his anger dissipate. The tension drained from his shoulders and he felt something else spark, something that lurked beneath his anger.

“Untie me,” he muttered, glowering.

Castiel reached out and brushed his fingers over Dean’s bloody hair. The pounding in his head immediately stopped and the pressure from the rope was gone.

“Thanks,” he grunted as he sat up, exhausted despite being mostly ache-free. He leaned forward on his knees and rubbed his wrists together where he could still feel the raspy fray against his skin. When he finally looked up, Castiel was still standing and staring down at him, expression unreadable. The bond was silent between them. “What?” he asked.

Carefully, expression the same, Castiel said, “If that offer to stay is still available, I would like to take you up on it. My schedule has cleared itself for the foreseeable future.”

Dean could have laughed. It rose up within him, but he swallowed against the immediate reaction, instead wanting to play it cool and hard to get. Show Cas what it felt like to be snubbed. Except that wasn’t as easy as it sounded, when he knew that he was one rustle of wings away from losing the opportunity.

“I don’t know,” he said, schooling his expression into something he hoped resembled innocence. “I mean, I’ve got a lot going on these days. You might have to make me an offer I can’t refuse.” 

Cas’ eyes narrowed as he looked at Dean, probably attempting to read Dean’s mind in order to make said offer.

“Stop,” Dean said, amusement clear in his voice. “Come over here.” Castiel obediently dropped next to him on the couch. “This is a start,” he said, and touched Castiel’s cheek. There was no resounding echo of recollection, no flurry of someone else’s memories in the back of his mind. Instead, he felt something spark between them, and the bond responded with longing. Castiel’s eyes darkened, caught on Dean’s face, and neither looked away.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to do this,” Castiel murmured, his eyes sliding down to Dean’s lips. “I didn’t want to leave you that night.” One of them had moved closer, and Dean didn’t know if it was him or Cas. It didn’t matter. Their lips met and it felt like electricity crackled between them, completely unlike the bittersweet kiss from his dreams.

He could feel himself responding before Castiel’s tongue flicked over his, fingers grasping his collar and holding him close. He groaned in Cas’ mouth, shifting his hips toward him and any possible friction. Castiel pulled back and ignored the keening noise that Dean made, that Dean would deny ever making if anyone asked.

Castiel touched one hand over Dean’s cheek, and cupped the side of his face with his palm. "I know that your soul burns brighter than any other I have seen. I know that in another reality, I chose you over heaven, over everything that I know, and that I would rather rip out my grace than see harm come to you. What does that mean for you and me?" He paused and Dean felt himself shiver, felt the intensity of Castiel’s gaze that seemed to pierce through him, see to his core. "Nothing," something caught in Dean’s chest, "and everything."

Dean pressed forward and they were kissing again, his tongue licking against Cas’ lips, slipping between as they parted with his breath, and then Cas’ tongue was pressed against his, tasting and exploring. Dean shifted back to catch his breath, pressing their foreheads together, one hand firmly holding the back of Castiel’s head with fingers threaded through his short hair.

“Are you going back to Heaven?” Dean asked, kissing the corners of Castiel’s mouth. It was hard to think with the blood pounding through his veins, with the overwhelming ache to rut against Cas and to find completion with him... but Sam wasn’t due home, Dean’s schedule was free, and there was something that he wanted to know more than he wanted to get off.

“You could say that I have been permanently assigned to Earth. I am to protect the griffin,” Cas said, his voice dry. “While I will eventually return to Heaven, I have been banished to the Earth. My punishment for disobeying is to fall from grace and experience one lifetime.” Castiel pulled back, enough that he could look Dean in the eye. “I want to help others, but I intend to spend much of that time with you.”

Dean couldn’t help the grin, couldn’t hide it even if he’d wanted. He didn’t say anything, but he knew that the bond would share his happiness. There were so many things he could show Castiel about life as a human; all of life’s pleasures, like classic rock and cherry pie and driving too fast on tiny back roads...

“Yes,” he breathed, and this time, when their lips met, it was with purpose and determination, a long, wet kiss that ended with Dean mouthing down Cas’ jawline. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on Cas’ shirt as he licked up to the earlobe, to nip and suckle at the soft, sensitive skin behind Cas’ ear. When it was unbuttoned, Dean pushed the trench coat back and off of Castiel’s’ shoulders. Cas helped tug it away from his body, pulling his arms through one by one, and pulled off his shirt, leaving his neck and chest exposed to Dean’s wandering mouth. Dean slid his tongue down the side of Castiel’s neck to the junction of his shoulder.

He licked and nibbled at the sensitive skin just above Castiel’s collar bone, his own straining cock twitching when Castiel groaned, the noise utterly lewd and unrestrained. Cas’ skin was soft under his tongue, and he bit him curiously to gauge his reaction. Castiel stiffened in response, breathing suddenly ragged as he licked his lips, staring at Dean’s mouth when Dean pulled away.

“All okay?” Dean asked, voice low and rough with desire, and Cas nodded, eyes dark and locked on Dean’s face.

“The sensations are overwhelming,” he said, his eyes shifting to his crotch where he pressed one palm against his visibly straining cock, his slacks tented and a small wet spot spreading across the seam.

Dean chuckled and reached toward Cas’ pants. “Don’t worry, we’ll take it slow. A lifetime gives us plenty of time to explore.” His expression froze as he caught his own admission. “Not that I’m assuming... I mean.” He met Castiel’s stare helplessly, his hand hovering over Cas’ abdomen.

“You’re not presuming too much, Dean,” Castiel said, shifting up against his palm. He bit his bottom lip, watched how Dean’s eyes dropped to his mouth. “Are you going to touch me?”

Dean grinned and purposely brushed his hand against the bulge in Cas’ slacks before he popped the button open and slid the zipper down in one deft movement. “Oh, yeah,” he said, one hand slipping into Cas’ pants and pulling his heavy cock free of his underwear and pants. “I’m definitely going to touch you. Been thinking about this for some time now.” Dean looked at the head of Cas’ cock, flushed and slick with precome. His shaft was thick, curved perfectly, and Dean gave it a couple of quick, dry jerks in succession, as he breathed, “but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Cas watched with wide eyes as Dean let go long enough to lick his own palm before he wrapped his fingers back around his shaft, jerking him quickly; Cas pressed his face against Dean’s shoulder, nuzzling into his neck as his breath hitched, and Dean could only imagine how it must feel to experience something only witnessed for thousands of years. He turned toward Cas and their lips met, Cas groaning into Dean’s mouth as they kissed. Dean was painfully hard, and he wondered if he could come just from Cas’ noises as they made out, like some virginal kid in the backseat of his dad’s car with his first girlfriend.

When he felt the slight tremble in Cas’ tense thighs, Dean knew Cas was close. He broke their kiss to lick his way down Cas’ jawline, trailing from his neck to his collarbone. Dean licked over the sensitive skin he had nipped, and out of curiosity he dragged his teeth over the tender skin. Cas exhaled harshly and thrust up into Dean’s fist, once, twice, and he came, come streaking white onto Dean’s shirt. The thick, warm liquid slid down over his hand as he began to slow his movements, easing the remainder of the orgasm out of Cas.

Dean’s breath caught when Cas looked at him, the blissed-out expression leaving his features vulnerable and exposed, and the bond thrummed with contentment.

“May I--?” Cas started, awareness beginning to resettle as the post-coitus high began to fade. He shifted, moving one hand toward Dean’s lap.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded and spread his knees, popping the button and pulling his own zipper, his hand then falling away to leave Castiel free to reach into his jeans. He watched Cas touch him, carefully, then with confidence, stroking once or twice before he pulled Dean’s cock free of his boxers and jeans. The cooler air hit his warm skin and Dean sighed as Castiel wrapped his palm around Dean’s cock, moving it up and down slowly.

Dean’s found Cas’ wrist and he guided the movement a little faster, the strokes shorter, and concentrated on how it felt when Cas’ fingers rubbed against the thick ridge of the head of his dick. “Yeah, like that,” he panted and stared at Cas’ fingers moving over his cock, before Cas drew them away and licked them. Dean watched his pink tongue slide between them, leaving his fingertips glistening as his hand dropped back to Dean’s lap.

Dean licked his lips as he watched, and Cas must have taken that as a cue to move because he was suddenly kissing Dean’s neck and licking against his skin, sucking just beneath his jawline. Dean closed his eyes and surrendered to the feelings; the steady build of pleasure in his cock, and how Castiel’s tongue felt against his skin, bringing him that much closer.

It was over all too soon, the swell of pleasure building as Cas stroked him faster. “Please,” Cas murmured against his neck, and his voice was enough to push Dean over the edge. 

Dean came with a shout, his hips bucking up as he fucked Castiel’s hand. Cas slowed to a stop as Dean twitched, the friction suddenly too much. Dean watched Cas lift his come-covered fingers and examine him before his pink tongue darted out and he licked his finger clean. Dean felt his dick twitch when Cas sucked his own finger into his mouth, spent but affected by the sight.

“There’s more?” Castiel asked, having caught Dean’s eyes again, as he wiped his fingers off on his discarded shirt.

“So much more,” Dean confirmed as he zipped up, exhaustion beginning to wear down his thoughts and slow his movement. He thought about stretching out on the couch, but there wasn’t enough room for both of them. “Come on,” he said, forcing himself to stand. He held a hand out to Cas. “The bed’s better for what comes next. Come on, lay down next to me. We’ll explore later.” Dean yawned. “Right now, rest.”

Castiel followed him down the hallway, to his room. Dean shut the door behind them before he collapsed onto his bedspread, not bothering to remove his clothes. “Here,” he said, and patted the bed next to him.

Cas curled up against him, and the bond between them was warm, fulfilled.

Dean hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the active bond, nor how easy it would be to accept Castiel’s presence in his thoughts and life. He knew it could change, that Castiel wasn’t quite human, and that he had been assigned a specific task that could take him away from Dean at any time. Right then, with Castiel lying next to him in his bed, it didn’t matter. 

One lifetime together. Dean would take it. A smile spread across his face at the thought of teaching Cas the perks of being a human. He reached up and ran one hand through Castiel’s hair, and felt Cas sigh against his side, contented. Dean closed his eyes and savored the moment. He could feel the bond, solid in his chest, and this time Dean knew that what he felt wasn’t an echo of someone else’s bond, but _his._

....


	6. Epilogue

### 

**The Following May**

The folding chair was hard and uncomfortable. Dean shifted as he tried to find a tolerable position, first sprawling back in the chair, and then shifting forward to resting his elbows on his thighs. One hand dangled between his knees, and the other held a curled program. The red devil mascot winked from the front, contrasting gold and black lettering crisp. It was Dean’s alma mater too, and he had already smiled at nearly a dozen people that he recognized.

The auditorium around him was half-full, families scattered throughout the rows of folding chairs that lined either side of the long aisle that the graduates would march down before and after the ceremony. The stage was lined with staggered rows of benches and a tall podium stood at the front and center of the stage. A teacher performed a sound check, tapping the microphone on the stand over and over.

If his throat was tight, it was because he had a smidgen of anxiety. The last time he’d been in a crowd this large had probably been in his own high school cafeteria. He pushed away the thought that it might be related to watching his not-so-little brother grow up and fly the nest. Sam hadn’t hid his letter of acceptance from Stanford, but he hadn’t outright told Dean about it, either. It had been left sitting on the kitchen table one night, and Dean had found it after Sam was asleep. Dean hadn’t worked up the courage to breach the subject, but he knew it was coming, could hear himself saying, ‘California? Really, Sam?’ even as he thought about trying to find a job out there and if his abilities would surpass his lack of credentials. It wasn’t like living tucked between the grooves in the mountains, surrounded by wilderness and folks that believed in the power of their hands. 

On his graduation day, Dean couldn’t swallow the pride he felt when he thought of his brother. He could feel it teeming over, visible in the curve of his grin and shining from his eyes. He’d known that Sammy would graduate at the top of his class, and valedictorian was quite an accomplishment. He had easily surpassed what Dean could muster, and had gone above and beyond to prove to himself that he was more than the sum of all his parts. Sam had a future despite his past.

If there was a tingle of fear somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind, well, he wasn’t paying attention to it, or to the little voice that said he was finally free to do those things too, if that was his wish. That now, he could pack up and see the world for a few years, or just take off into the sunset and stop whenever he ran out of gas to find work, earn some cash, and move on. The contrasting voice was beginning to sound suspiciously like Bobby, and bitched at Dean over his education options, and he usually growled back that he didn’t want to become Bobby, damnit, and that there was plenty of time for wandering when he was older.

Based on Bobby’s nagging, Dean had been tossing a few ideas around, nothing major, but he was considering a certification program that would land him a proper mechanic's license. He could open his own shop and maybe turn Bobby’s get-up into an official garage.

Lost in his thoughts, Dean didn’t notice the shadow falling over him until the person spoke.

“Is this seat taken?”

Hot damn, he’d know that voice anywhere. The quiet bond startled into awareness as Dean straightened and looked up to meet Castiel’s eyes, his breath catching as he looked over the man he hadn’t seen in a few months. Having finally mastered the necessity of owning and maintaining clothing, Cas stood in a pair of black slacks and a coral button-up shirt, a sight for Dean’s sore eyes. The first two buttons on his shirt were undone and exposed a sliver of Castiel’s neck. Dean wanted to stand up and lick the line of exposed skin.

“I didn’t know if you’d be able to make it,” he said. Cas didn’t look any different than the last time Dean had seen him, maybe a bit thinner in his face, with a thick layer of stubble that was beginning to resemble a beard. It had been a couple of months since Cas had left to complete his personal missionary work abroad with the Peace Corps, improving infrastructure in underdeveloped countries. Cas had told him then that his powers were running low and that he might not be able to return in time if they were depleted by Sam’s graduation.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Cas said quietly, staring at Dean like he was the only person in the building. The bond felt heavy and hot in Dean’s chest. 

Dean cleared his throat and looked away, trying to control the flush of warmth he felt on his cheeks. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the seat, and Castiel sat next to him. Their thighs pressed together and he shifted closer, the slight contact a comfort after Cas’ long absence. “How goes God’s work?”

Cas didn’t answer immediately, a peculiar expression crossing his face when he finally spoke. “I think I’m finished with my work overseas,” he said evenly, and Dean knew that he meant he had finally depleted the grace available to him and was cut off from Heaven for the remainder of his human lifetime.

“Yeah? What’s next for you?” The Peace Corp had been a surprise to Dean; something he’d never heard discussed among his group of friends.

Castiel spread his fingers, hands palms up on his lap. Dean could see callouses along his fingers, neglected like his still-chapped lips. “I like to build things. Someone told me that I should look into carpentry and that I have a gift with woodwork.”

Dean shook his head. “Figures,” he said, and felt his grin widen.

As they talked, the auditorium filled up around them. A burly dad with a stern expression and his arms crossed over his chest sat next to Dean, and a woman clutching the hands of two wriggling toddlers gave Cas a small smile when she asked if he was saving the seats next to him for anyone.

When the graduation music began, Dean’s focus was on the stage as he watched the students fill in their seats; Sam’s height was an unmistakable indication of his position. He watched his brother walk on stage and take his place in the middle of his row, smiling and chatting with the people around him until the principal took the microphone and shushed the class.

There were the standard speeches, the principal expressing pride and appreciation for the class, and slight amusement and irritation at the antics the seniors had pulled off toward the end of the year. Then Sam, who spoke for his class, took the mike, beaming as he quoted Dr. Seuss about bettering the world at the end of his speech, to the cheers of his classmates.

Dean snapped a couple photos of Sam as he walked across the stage, including the diploma acceptance and handshake shots, Sam and the principal smiling at the crowd with the diploma held above their clasped hands. Dean thought he caught his eye as he lowered the camera, and grinned widely at Sam, just in case.

It was easy to locate Sam after the ceremony, standing with a group of his friends in the large hallway outside of the auditorium. A girl next to him spoke animatedly, hands moving faster as her story reached a climax and her friends burst into laughter. Sam’s face crinkled when he laughed, and Dean couldn’t hide his own matching smile as he watched his brother interact with his friends and with the world he’d created for himself. Dean had no doubt that Sam was going to be fine on his own and that he would make a name and a way for himself.

“He looks happy,” Cas said as he stopped next to Dean. Dean didn’t bother hiding his sappy smile. He was proud of his brother. They’d watched their father drink himself to death, leaving Dean behind to put together what he could for both of them. It could have been worse, much worse, but somehow it had worked out well enough for both of them.

Sam noticed them as the hallway began to clear, and he said something to his friends before running over, his gown billowing out around him. He held his arms out, his grin nearly splitting his face, and said proudly, “I did it!”

It was the happiest he had seen his brother in a long time. Dean wrapped him in a tight hug. “Yeah, Sammy, you did,” he told him, his voice thick with emotion.

Sam stepped back and looked at Cas. “Hey, Cas. Good to see you!” He held out his hand, raising his eyebrows at Dean when Cas ignored the outstretched hand and stepped forward to hug Sam just as Dean had.

“Congratulations, Sam,” Cas said solemnly when he stepped back. “I have come to understand that high school graduation is held in a high regard for someone your age, a major milestone on your way to adulthood. I wish you luck in your future endeavors.”

Dean didn’t know who Cas had been asking about graduation, but it sounded okay. He shrugged at Sam, who thanked Cas before asking about his travels. Dean tuned out the conversation as Cas described the particulars of the indigenous peoples that his group had worked with and the difficulties of building the irrigation system in a low lying wetland. 

After a few minutes, someone shouted at Sam from his group of friends, waving him over.

“Hey, uh, Dean, do you mind--?” Sam glanced at his friends. “We were all going out to grab pizza, and there’s a few parties tonight. I’ll probably end up playing video games at Luis’ house later.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, go on, kid. Have fun, be safe.” He punched Sam lightly on the shoulder. “You deserve it. Besides, we’ve got the rest of this summer to celebrate. Call me if you need me.” As he spoke, Dean was hyper aware of Cas’ presence at his side, and any melancholy he might have felt was replaced with anticipation that he tried to push at the bond.

Sam gave Dean a quick half-hug before he returned to his friends, and Dean watched the teenagers disappear around the curve in the hall.

“Any parties for you tonight?” Dean asked as he turned to Cas. He teased lightly, but there was an undercurrent to the question, desire hidden in his words.

“Only if you’re hosting,” Cas replied, and smiled in return. Though he looked happy, he sounded serious when he continued. “I need to discuss something with you.”

Cas rode back to the house with Dean, and they ended up on the front porch, sitting in folding camp chairs and watching the sunset send bright streaks of red and orange across the sky. Dean cracked open a couple bottles of beer and passed one to Cas, who took the bottle but only trailed his finger through the condensation on the glass. Dean turned his bottle up and took a healthy swig.

“What’s up?” He asked, cradling his beer between his hands.

Castiel stared at the sky when he spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. “I can’t feel my wings. I know they exist, that my grace exists, and that they are bound together. I will feel them again one day. Right now, they are gone.”

Dean opened his mouth before he realized that he didn’t know what to say, so he took another drink and waited for Cas to continue.

“I think I am ready to start my life as a human being. Here,” he clarified, and glanced at Dean. “With you.”

He nodded. He’d offered before, when Cas had nowhere else to go. Cas had stayed with him for a few weeks, but ultimately felt he needed to spend the remainder of his powers as God would have wanted, which meant travelling and helping others.

Dean thought of Sam leaving for college, and his plans to find a local college that offered automotive courses. He thought of the warmth of the bond, how it had fallen silent while Cas was away, and how he’d hopefully left one half of his closet empty in case this day came to pass.

Dean took a long pull from his bottle before he sat it down and reached toward Cas with his free hand. He curled his fingers around Cas’ hand, and Cas looked down at their hands with surprise. Dean carefully turned Castiel’s palm up and twined their fingers together. The bond felt warm and comfortable in his chest, where it belonged. Dean watched as Cas looked up, his startled expression meeting Dean’s steady gaze. 

Dean smiled at Cas. “Welcome home.”

....

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the 2013 SPN/J2 Big Bang challenge on LiveJournal. [Go see the AMAZING art that my artist, Seleneheart, created for the story!!!](http://acme-graphics.livejournal.com/41652.html)
> 
> You can find my notes and acknowledgements on the [Echoes Masterpost](http://rearranged.livejournal.com/838442.html).


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